


Something's Different About You Lately

by thesnadger



Series: Something's Different About You Lately [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Spiders, Suicidal Thoughts, Time Travel Fix-It, unreality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24973237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesnadger/pseuds/thesnadger
Summary: Jonathan Sims has been head archivist for just a few months, but he has memories of holding the position for years. He remembers monsters, and darkness, and the end of the world. Somehow, he'll have to keep everyone safe from what's coming. Meanwhile, his assistants can't understand why their prickly jerk of a boss has gone sappy all of a sudden.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Something's Different About You Lately [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2111217
Comments: 529
Kudos: 1576





	1. A Few More Bad Nights

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this comic/idea by questbedhead on tumblr.](https://questbedhead.tumblr.com/post/621669317214404608/questbedhead-tma-time-travel-au-but-instead-of) I liked the idea of Jon sending his memories back to his S1 self. Not sure if I'll add more to this or not, if I do it'll be scenes interspersed with timeskips rather than a day-by-day story. I do have some thoughts.

Jon woke suddenly and bolted from his chair. He made it halfway to the door, stumbling in a blind panic before reality caught up with him and he remembered where he was. The room that was half his flat came into focus. Shadows pooled against the dim light coming from outside.

He breathed slowly as his heart rate returned to normal.

Jon’s dreams were his own now, and in them he was only himself. Mostly they were nightmares, and mostly the nightmares were bad. But he’d still take them any night over the pitiless, helpless consumption of secondhand terror that he knew was the alternative. Still. This one had been awful. He could still see images of it, lingering in his mind. In particular he remembered Martin’s face, twisted in an expression of pain and fear for just a moment before his grimace turned into an unnatural, too-wide smile . . . Jon shuddered as he tried to forget it.

His phone was on the table that served as both desk and eating space, and he checked the time. 8:15. He’d nodded off in his seat and slept for less than an hour.

Jon stared at the phone’s screen and wondered how Martin was doing. There were several months to go before Jane would attack the institute. The table that had held the thing that once took Sasha, the centerpiece of this particular nightmare, it hadn’t even arrived yet. Martin would be fine in the archive, Jon knew that. He’d sleep there without incident for months, unharmed. There was no need to worry about his safety just yet.

The image from his dream remained in Jon’s mind, unmoved by his own reassurance. He found himself wishing, not for the first time in recent days, that he could reach into the ocean of Knowing that had once pressed so forcefully against his mind. That he could just Know if Martin was all right, See what he was doing right now. But the door in his mind wasn’t just closed, it was gone. Not yet built. _Never_ to be built if Jon could help it. There was nothing to reach for and nothing to give in to. It was just as well, he supposed, since he’d promised to give Martin privacy. Lacking the ability to check just removed the temptation to do so.

Without really thinking, Jon ran his thumb over his contacts and scrolled until he found Martin’s name. He tapped it, opening their history. The last message visible was still from Jane Prentiss and Jon frowned at the sight of it. Martin had a new phone now, of course, but the number was the same.

Jon could call him if he wanted to. Just check in, make sure he was all right. Reassure himself that nothing terrible was happening.

Sighing, Jon set the phone down. Hadn’t harassing his staff been one of the things that caused so much trouble the first time around? Martin didn’t need Jon bothering him every hour of the day and night with all his worries. He’d have enough of his own after his encounter with Prentiss. No. Jon would go in to work tomorrow, see Martin there, and everything would be completely fine - or at least as close to fine as was possible, under the circumstances. It wouldn’t be that long until morning.

He checked the time again. 8:17.

Of course, if he happened to stop by the institute because he’d forgotten something there, he’d be sure to run into Martin. Then he could see for himself that he was safe. That would be perfectly all right, wouldn’t it? He nodded to himself as he got his coat.

On the train ride downtown, he thought about another Martin. The one in his memories - his _new_ memories - who had tried so hard to keep Jon safe and present and whole. Who’d somehow kept a grip on hope even after everything fell apart. A hope so blind and powerful that it alternately seemed like foolish, sad denial and like a beacon that could rival the dread powers in its brilliance.

In another time, another life, another world, Jon had watched that light grow slowly dimmer as the cruel reality of the new world smothered it. The world he had brought into existence. Jon had spent so long in despair and resignation by then, he’d even been frustrated at times by what seemed like Martin’s unwillingness to face reality. It was really rather ironic how much he had panicked when he began to realize that Martin was giving up as well.

The final blow had come after Jonah was destroyed. When they learned that killing him had accomplished nothing except binding Jon to the Panopticon completely. Jon had felt his body go limp, his edges softening, his body merging with with the flesh of the tower as a thousand eyes he hadn’t known he’d had opened all at once. He was fairly sure he’d have have accepted his fate without a fight if it hadn’t been for the look on Martin’s face.

So he’d done the only thing he could. He’d drowned his mind in the Knowing that howled at the edge of his consciousness. Dove as deeply as he could, drinking it in, reaching for anything that might give them a chance. Perhaps it had been his regret, his childish desire to go back and undo all of his mistakes that had guided him to the answer. He’d already known that he could force knowledge into the minds of others, just as Jonah had. But Jon was more powerful than Jonah had been and he had now been placed permanently in the center of the Beholding. He could send his knowledge anywhere. Possibly across time itself. He could send all that he knew - his memories, his experiences - back to a time when he might still be able to do something with that knowledge.

It had been a long shot, an unlikely gamble. But as he explained his plan to Martin he’d seen light return to his eyes. Watched a tearful smile bloom in him as he held what remained of Jon’s hand.

If Jon did nothing else good with his life, if he truly couldn’t escape what he was and everything fell apart again this time, he’d still be proud of that moment. When he’d found a way to rekindle that precious spark of hope Martin had carried. If one day he found himself back at that tower, trapped in the knowledge that he could only repeat this horrific cycle over and over and over, he would still have that.

Of course . . . it hadn’t really been _him_ who’d done that, had it?

Jon looked at the smooth, unbroken skin of his hand. His palm was soft, unblemished, and free of pain. His wrist lacked the twisted trails he’d memorized the locations of. He remembered the Carousel and Night Street more clearly than he could recall what must have been last week for him, but what felt like it had happened years ago. But he had never truly been to those places. He only had the memories of them.

What had happened to the man who’d be there? And what had happened to his Martin? Did they exist in some future that was still being unwritten? If Jon could stop this all from happening, would they blink out of existence along with the rest of their world? Or worse, would they continue on in their horrific timeline that could never be changed or erased? And if it became clear that nothing could save them, would that spark in Martin finally die, forever?

Jon shook his head. He couldn’t think about that. There was no way of finding out the answers to those questions, and he had to focus on the world he was in. On the people who were here, still alive, still with him. On the Martin that hadn’t given up. And even if he wasn’t truly the person in his own memories, if his skin was unmarked and his mind was distressingly quiet and still, he still _felt_ like that person. It was one unbroken chain of events to him - from the institute to the safehouse to the tower and back here.

It was harmless, he decided, to keep thinking of himself as that Jon. He had enough on his mind without adding on another existential crisis.

It was 8:57 when he reached the front door of the Magnus Institute, walked in and headed for the archive. His neck still ached from the awkward position of his unexpected nap, and he rubbed it irritably as he walked. He’d gotten so disconnected from his body after the coma. Even pain, which had been his constant companion for a long time, had begun to feel abstract to him. Now every physical sensation was loud and demanded attention.

Maybe it was the distraction of that ache that kept him from noticing the noise coming from beyond the archive door. He barely had a moment to recognize the thing that was hurtling towards him before it came within inches of his face.

Jon’s reflexes were not enviable. He did not leap back gracefully so much as yelp and stumble into the desk behind him. A heavy wrench sailed through the air just inches away as his back hit the desk’s edge. He slid to the floor, arms splayed, trying to get his balance again. Things might have gone quite bad for him if his would-be attacker hadn’t stopped, frozen in horror, to stare at him wide-eyed.

“ _God!_ Jon! I’m - - I’m so sorry!” Martin dropped the wrench, hands shaking. “I didn’t hit you, did I? Please tell me I didn’t - -”

Jon’s brain took a moment to catch up with what he was seeing, adrenaline still flooding him as he connected Martin’s expression with the blow to the head he’d just avoided. He’d been defending himself? Had Jon’s fears been right, was there an attack on the archive ahead of schedule?

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Martin looked more distressed by the moment, and Jon heard a crack in his voice. “I didn’t know it was you. Are you hurt? Tell me if you’re hurt, please - -”

“I’m fine, Martin.” Jon did his best to sound calming. “Really. You just . . . startled me.”

“Good. Thank God. Ah. . . sorry.”

Now assured that he hadn’t given Jon a concussion, Martin bent down to hesitantly offer a hand up. Jon took it, the shape of Martin’s palm around his own natural and familiar. He placed another hand on Jon’s back, pushing him gently upwards and holding there for just a moment. The difference in their height and size, the sheer physicality of Martin’s presence was immensely steadying and Jon felt some disappointment as he pulled away. If Martin noticed this he gave no sign, still nervously babbling apologies.

“Martin. _Martin,_ ” Jon cut him off. “It’s _fine._ I’m all right. What’s going on? Were you just . . . lurking behind the door, wielding a blunt object?”

“I just - - I heard - - I don’t know.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck, beginning to look more embarrassed than afraid. “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here and it’s so quiet at night and I just - just heard something moving around and I thought maybe - - ”

Something finally clicked for Jon.

“Martin . . . .” he said. “Did you think that I was worms?”

Martin’s face flushed and he looked down, muttering. “I mean, you _could_ have been worms.”

“Yes. I suppose I might have been worms.” Jon agreed, biting his cheek to hide an amused smile. "And given what you’ve been through I can’t blame you for being a bit paranoid.”

“I’m _really_ sorry - -”

“No harm done. Let’s not worry about it anymore.”

Jon smiled fondly and reached up to pat Martin’s shoulder. Nothing lingering. Just a few, quick taps, a ‘there there’ motion. Surely that was all right, wasn’t it? That wasn’t too familiar? Maybe it was - Martin looked uneasy and confused more than anything else. But he stopped apologizing and nodded, so that was something.

“Er . . . what are you _doing_ here?” Martin asked. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt - presumably one he slept in, given the flannel pajama pants that he also wore. It had a cartoon bear on it that Jon was fairly sure was from a video game. “I thought you went home.”

“Ah. I did.” Jon remembered the excuse he’d come with. “Yes, I went home. But then I realized that I’d left something important in my office, and I had to come back for it. Which is why I’m here.”

 _Don’t ask what it is._ Jon thought desperately as he went through the motions of walking towards his office door. _Please don’t ask what it is._

“Oh. I see.”

Martin didn’t ask what it was, to Jon’s relief and gratitude. He made some pretense of rummaging around in his desk as Martin appeared in the doorway, hanging there hesitantly. Jon noticed he’d picked up the dropped wrench and was holding it at his side. He paused, looking at it.

“Sorry, but - -” Jon asked “- - were you planning to hit the worms with a wrench?”

“Oh - -” Martin looked at the tool in his hand, laughing nervously. “No, uh. I mean there’d be too many of them for that to do any good, right? I just . . . well, I could tell that it was a person moving around, or at least something person-sized. And I thought if it was Jane, I - - I didn’t want to get trapped again so I was going to make a run for it. But I wanted something in case she tried to grab at me, you know?”

“I see. Yes, that would make a bit more sense.”

It didn’t escape Jon’s notice how tightly Martin was gripping the wrench, or the way his eyes would occasionally dart to the corners of the floor. Or the fact that, despite his apparent embarrassment over nearly bashing Jon’s head in while in his pajamas, he was lingering in the doorway rather than returning to the room that he’d been staying in.

He was right to be afraid. Jon _knew_ he was right to be afraid. The worms were most likely already there. They wouldn’t attack for some time, true, but they were still present. Waiting. Martin would sleep safe and unharmed night after night, his worst fear writhing in the walls around him. The thought made something deep in Jon’s stomach squirm.

It was only when Martin shifted uneasily that Jon realized he’d been staring. He fixed his gaze on his desk again, moving some papers around.

“I know this place is unsettling at night,” he offered.

“Yeah . . .” Martin exhaled. “I do appreciate you letting me stay. I’d probably be a lot more jumpy if I was back at my flat right now. At least the archive’s sealed off.”

“Still, if you’d feel more comfortable I could - -”

Jon stopped himself mid-sentence, the offer halfway out of his mouth before he even realized what he’d been saying.

 _Could what, you damned fool?_ he thought. _Stay here tonight? Sleep in the narrow cot with him? Hold his hand and stroke the crown of his head if he wakes up afraid, the way you used to when he had nightmares? Yes, surely that’s what he wants to hear from his prick of a boss that’s never been anything but unkind to him._

“. . . Could see if there’s some way to . . . enhance security around here,” he muttered after far, far too long a pause.

“I mean, if you think it’s worth looking into.” Martin chuckled nervously. “Not sure if there’s anything a burgler alarm could do about worms. But at least Jane could maybe be kept away?”

“I’ll look into it.” Jon said, insincerely.

“Could convince Elias it’s worth doing just for general security, right?” Martin asked hopefully.

Jon didn’t try to hide the contempt in his voice “I’m sure he’s very concerned about employee safety, yes.”

Martin went quiet at that. Jon had probably been pretending to rummage around in his desk for too long. He pulled a few papers out of his top drawer, tucked them in a file and stuck it under his arm. Then he hesitated. He really didn’t want to leave. These months in the archive had been _hard_ for Martin, Jon knew that. He’d gone to sleep every night afraid that he’d wake up with worms boring into his skin. And more often than not the people around him - Jon especially - had treated his anxieties like an annoyance.

Jon wanted to stay, to give Martin the comfort of another person’s presence. He knew all too well how being alone with one’s thoughts sent them spinning into further extremes of fear and paranoia. He wanted to be there for him this time.

And it wasn’t just for Martin’s sake. It was perhaps absurd for Jon to think that he missed someone he saw daily, but it was true. He’d felt adrift in the week since he’d gained his knowledge of the future. This Martin - truly, the only Martin there was, the only one that was real - didn’t lean into him or laugh when he was annoyed. He was nervous around Jon. He flinched back awkwardly when their hands brushed accidentally, and seemed like he was always waiting for some admonishment.

There was nothing for it, though. He’d just have to stick to the plan. Soon enough Sasha would be approached, and though Jon wasn’t thrilled at the thought - - he knew how sharp those hands were - - he knew Michael wouldn’t harm her. Once the fire suppression system was replaced with CO2, he’d just have to wait until the others were gone, find some excuse to send Martin away, and take care of Jane on his own. Martin would just have to endure a few more bad nights in the meantime.

“Well,” Jon gestured to the file under his arm. “This is what I came back for.”

 _Don’t ask what it is,_ he thought. _Please don’t ask what it is._

“Oh? What is it?” Martin asked.

_ I am being punished for my crimes against this world. _

“Ah. Just. Hmm. Some things I’ve been working on at home. Statements.”

Martin seemed to accept that. It was probably best not to add any unnecessary details.

“It’s sort of a personal research project of mine,” Jon continued, mouth moving without the consent of his brain. “Trying to work out some patterns I’ve noticed between statements with similar themes.”

 _Stop, you fool._ Jon thought.

“Really?” Martin seemed genuinely surprised. “Honestly, I kind of got the impression you thought the statements were mostly fake.”

“Well, I do. Of course.” Jon fumbled. “But ah, there can be some value in categorizing even the, uh, the ramblings of the delusional. It’s revealing. Teaches you about what people are afraid of.”

“Uh . . . right.” Martin raised an eyebrow.

“I should go.” Jon’s formerly pressing desire to stay was overruled by a need to flee before he started babbling about Smirke’s fourteen and made Martin’s nightmares even worse. He hurried towards the door.

Martin stepped aside to let Jon pass.

“Right. Er, good night.”

Just as Jon reached the archive door, a thought occurred to him. It wasn’t much, and he doubted Martin would take advantage of it. More than likely it would just confuse the poor man even more. But if he was destined to keep doing reckless and foolish things, at least one of them should have a chance of _easing_ someone’s fears instead of feeding them.

“If you hear something again.” Jon said, “or perhaps just _think_ you hear something, you should call me.”

Martin frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You said you were worried that Jane might come here. If you ever have reason to think she might be. . . .”

“I mean . . . thanks, but, shouldn’t I call 999 if that happens?” Martin tilted his head. “No offense, but I mean . . what are you going to do against the worms?”

 _Emergency services wouldn’t exactly do much against them, either._ Jon thought, but did not say.

“You should certainly do that if you’re in danger.” Jon said. “But I imagine you’ll hesitate rather than phone them at every odd sound.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“As I said, I know this place is unsettling at night,” Jon shrugged. “A second perspective can be a breath of fresh air. Can . . . help make it easier to tell whether something is a true danger or just in your head.”

Martin stared at him, brow furrowed, looking like he was trying and failing to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“And I keep odd hours,” Jon continued, waving his hand. He kept his tone stern and dismissive, as if that might disguise the fact that he’d essentially asked Martin to call him if he was feeling scared so he could talk him down. “So don’t worry if it’s late at night. Believe me, it won’t matter.”

“Um. All right,” Martin blinked, an uncertain smile that Jon considered a victory forming on his face. “Thanks.”

Jon nodded. “Sleep well, then.”

He hurried out before he could spoil this rare triumph with more reckless words, then ran to catch the late train home.


	2. Due Diligence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The three archival assistants engage in some highly unprofessional office gossip, showing a lack of respect for the esteemed academic institution that employs them.

“He’s going to fire me, I just know it.”

Martin sat miserably at his desk - head down, hands at his temples, trying in vain to banish the tension headache forming behind his eyes. Tim leaned over him, casually tossing one of Martin’s little desk toys from hand to hand. It was a stress ball shaped like a Snorlax, and had done very little to reduce Martin’s stress of late.

“Don’t  _ really  _ think that adds up,” Tim said, “why start being friendly if he’s planning to fire you? And wouldn’t he have, y’know, done it by now?”

“Elias, then. He’s going to fire me and Jon knows about it, so he’s acting nice to soften the blow.” Martin pulled at his hair, dragging a few messy curls down over his face. “Or - - or else he’s just happy I’ll be gone soon. Either way.”

“Or, here’s a thought - -” Tim reached over and set the stress ball down on the desk, about an inch from Martin’s nose. “He’s just decided to be nice. Something _nice _is actually happening to Martin Blackwood but he can’t accept it, because he’s got worms in his brain.”

Martin glared tiredly up through his hands. “I did  _ask _ you to stop with the worm jokes, Tim.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Tim put his hands up. “But that’s a thought, right? He probably just feels bad that you, y’know. . . got attacked by a stalker and her army of flesh eating parasites?”

There was some sense in that, Martin had to admit. It hadn’t been long after his encounter with Prentiss that he’d begun to notice changes in the things Jon said and did. Some of them were nice enough - he snapped a lot less, for one thing. He didn’t grumble and complain over little things Martin did or forgot to do, at least not where Martin could hear it. But other things were just baffling. He seemed to ask after Martin a whole lot more. He’d make strange comments and look at Martin like he expected him to laugh. And more than once, Martin had turned around to catch Jon staring at him with an expression that he couldn’t make heads or tails of. It left him feeling scrutinized. As if it was just a matter of time before he slipped up somehow, made some mistake that would upend his life even more.

Oh yes, and then there was the incident two weeks ago when he’d nearly smashed Jon’s head in with a wrench, and he’d said it was fine and they shouldn’t worry about it. Martin almost had a heart attack with that one. And then, _th_ _en _ Jon said to call him if he thought he heard something at night? What did that even mean? Was he concerned that his employee would be making frivolous 999 calls from the institute every time he heard the floor creak if he didn’t keep him from it?

If so, well . . . he probably wasn’t far from right, to be honest. Martin had been doing his best to keep it to himself, but he'd been pretty badly wound up lately. Especially at night, when everyone else was gone and it was just him and a thousand files filled with spooky stories to keep him company. And there was always that sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, no matter how many times he told himself that no one else was there.

To say nothing of the creepy noises. It was an old building, and everything creaked at night. The pipes were especially bad, the uncanny susurration of rushing water that through the walls at night. He tried to ignore it, even block it out with music. But as the long, empty nights wore on, it always crept back into his mind. His sleep-deprived brain making it sound like muffled, unintelligible voices. As if there was something just beyond the walls whispering or singing to him. It made him feel sick inside.

He  really  needed to get better sleep.

Still. If Jon just felt sorry for Martin after everything that had happened, it would at least explain why he was grumbling less and hovering more. Really, Martin should be enjoying the better treatment while it lasted, because he doubted it would stay for long. Jon probably wasn’t going to ever actually  like him. But if Martin could gain some ground with his new boss out of pity, well. That was something, wasn’t it? Better than being hated. And despite everything, he still  really needed this job.

Tim’s eyes suddenly widened. He gripped Martin’s arm and smiled brightly, looking over his shoulder to the door.

“Hiya boss,” he called, “how’s decoding Gertrude’s filing system going?”

Martin turned to see Jon enter, a rueful smile on his face.

“It’s a challenge,” he said. “I’m afraid it will be some time before we can expect any progress.”

“We really should come up with a name for it,” Tim replied. “Creepy Card Catalog? Dewey Decimal of the Damned? Oh! How about Old Lady Robinson’s Disaster-o-pedia?”

“‘Disaster’ is certainly appropriate.” Jon's tone was neutral, but he didn't hide his smile. He turned to Martin, setting a mug in front of him. “I ah, I’ve noticed you’re always making tea for the rest of us, Martin. I thought it might be nice if someone else brought you a cup.”

It was the mug that Tim had bought Martin as a gag gift shortly after they’d started working in the archive. The one with a black and white pattern that looked like a Jersey cow, with a pink three-dimension udder sticking out of the side. Martin looked at it, then back at Jon who was smiling expectantly.

“Oh. . . thanks?” Martin smiled back, a little awkwardly. “That’s nice of you.”

Jon’s smile widened. It widened a  _ lot,  _ actually. His whole practically face lit up and it was  _ way  _ too much, and it was  _ weird _ . Maybe Jon didn’t hear people call him nice very often?

"Least I can do. Given, ah - -" Jon hesitated, as if trying to remember what he was supposed to be grateful for. "Well. Given how hard you've been working, I suppose."

“What, nothing for me?” Tim teased.

“Ah . . . I didn’t think to--” Jon frowned, an expression of mild distress on his face. “But I could? I’ll just be a moment.”

Jon turned back towards the break room, and it was clear that even Tim was startled by that reaction. He’d obviously been joking, setting Jon up for a retort or an excuse to complain. It’s what he'd have normally responded with.

“See?” Martin gestured to where Jon had been standing. “That’s  _weird, _ right? That’s not just being friendly, it’s . . . I don’t know what it is. It’s an entire personality change.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” Tim blinked at the doorway. “He’s definitely planning to kill you.”

“Don’t joke about  _ that  _ either.” Martin groaned, rubbing his brow. The stress headache had not left, and he doubted it was going to any time soon.

“It starts with tea.” Tim continued, feigning a solemn tone. “Then, bit by bit, he’ll begin slipping you teeny tiny amounts of poison. Once you’re too weak to fight back or run,  _ bam. _ Briefcase full of snakes.” He shook his head. “The perfect crime.”

"Come on."

"Snakes can't talk, Martin. That means no witnesses."

Martin sighed and reached for the mug. Whatever was going on, he supposed he was at least getting tea that he didn’t have to make. As he took a sip, a familiar flavor bloomed on his tongue and he choked in surprise.

“Yikes.” Tim looked at him with concern. “Is his tea that bad?”

“No . . . no it’s - -” Martin set the mug down, coughing a little, and wiped his mouth. “There’s jam in it. Strawberry jam.”

“Seriously?” Tim wrinkled his nose. “Who puts  jam  in tea?”

“I do! Sometimes . . . .”

“And you have the nerve to call anybody  _ else  _ weird?”

“I like it! It’s sweet and - - and anyway that’s not the point.” Martin frowned. “How does he  _ know  _ that? I know I never mentioned it.”

“Eh. He remembers strange things sometimes.” Tim shrugged. “He’ll forget that you had to show him how to use the copier, but he’ll rattle off a thousand details about how it works. He’s probably got an encyclopedic knowledge of how everyone in the institute likes their tea.”

At that moment, Jon’s head appeared back in the doorway. “Tim. I forgot to ask. Do you take sugar or milk?”

“Oh, you know it’s both.” Tim grinned, pointing in Jon’s direction.

Jon nodded and ducked back out. Martin looked at Tim, who shrugged.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve known Jon a lot longer than you. And one thing I can say about him is this - he’s a prick, but he’s not an asshole.”

“What does that even mean?” Martin sighed, picking up the mug again.

“It means . . . he’s just sort of _li_ _ke __that, _ ” Tim gestured vaguely towards the door. “He’s insensitive, and kind of snobby, and when he’s in a bad mood he makes it _everyone _else’s problem. But he’s not mean-spirited. Most of the time I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, honestly.”

“Realize it or not,” Martin muttered into his tea - - which damn it, was delicious and he was going to enjoy it regardless. “It’s not very nice being on the other end of it.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Tim smirked. “Like I said, he’s a total prick. But I don’t think he  _wants _ to be mean. And he doesn’t like thinking he’s hurt someone. You want to know my guess?”

“. . . Sure.”

“The whole worm thing made him take a look at how he’s been acting, especially with you,” Tim said. “And now he feels guilty. Covertly figuring out your awful, deviant tea preferences is probably his way of trying to make amends.”

“Mmm.”

Martin tapped Tim’s arm and looked at the door, which he’d been watching more closely ever since the first interruption. Jon appeared with a second cup of tea, this one in a mug that read “Over Sixty and Still Sexy!” in pink bubble letters.

“Here we are,” he handed it to Tim, looking pleased with himself.

“Thanks, chief.” Tim snapped his fingers. “Oh, hey! Almost forgot, I followed up on Statement 0162102. The woman in Sussex who saw a manifestation in her backyard? You know. The one with the uncanny, owl-like features?”

“Oh.” Jon raised an eyebrow. “What did you find?”

“Well. I looked up her address and as it turns out she lives half a mile from an owl sanctuary.”

“Ah.”

“Went to investigate like you said. Really nice old lady. He scones were a little dry, but she had some interesting knickknacks that she was _very_ keen on showing me, at length.”

“Sounds  _profoundly _ fascinating.”

“Anyway, I managed to tear myself away long enough to check out the yard. Shockingly enough, found some owl pellets there. So, stop me if you’ve heard this one, but--” he clicked his tongue loudly. “Think maybe she saw an owl?”

Jon smirked. “Another one for the discredited section.”

“That thing’s filling up fast.” Tim observed.

“Quite unsurprising, all thing considered.” Jon sighed, feigning disappointment, badly disguising how smug he was about it. Given his attitude towards the paranormal, Martin expected he believed that every statement should go straight into that pile. “Still. Progress is progress, and elimination is a form of progress on its own. I’ll let you know when I have something new for you.”

“Sure thing. Still waiting for my chance to unmask the creepy old mill owner trying to scare those meddling kids off his property.”

Jon laughed, sharp and loud, before catching himself and putting a hand over his mouth. There was something in his expression when he looked at Tim that Martin couldn’t quite place, and he found himself wondering if Jon had any interest in men. If so, it would make sense for him to be interested in Tim. Everyone was interested in Tim.

“Yes, well. I’d best be going,” he added hastily, nodding at Tim and then Martin. “Work to do. Good afternoon.”

Off he went again, ducking through the door and heading back towards his office. Tim turned to Martin once Jon was out of earshot.

“See?” he said, sipping his tea. “Deep down, the man’s a teddy bear.”

“Hmnn.” Martin fiddled with the handle on his mug. “Well. You and Sasha have known him for longer.”

“We were a duo of infamous murderers in a past life,” Tim said, “and now we’re being punished for it.”

“I suppose if  _ you  _ guys think this is normal for him - -”

He was interrupted by the loud  _thunk _ as Sasha appeared beside them, setting a box full of files down on the desk next to his. She looked at them both and smiled brightly.

“Oh, are we talking about how weird Jon’s been lately?” she asked. “Because he’s acting  _super _ weird, don’t let this guy over here tell you differently.”

“ _Right? _ Thank you!” Martin exhaled, relieved.

“It’s tough for me to say this," Tim leaned back, shaking his head, "but I’m honestly not sure that we can trust him anymore.” 

“Jon?” Sasha asked.

“No, Martin,” he made a show of putting a hand over his mouth, loudly whispering. “I found out he’s got this weird jam thing going on. Highly suspicious.”

“It’s not even that unusual!” Martin gesturing towards Tim. “See,  _ he  _ thinks Jon just feels guilty because I almost got murdered by worms.”

“Well, sure. I could believe that was it if he was just being less of a grouch. But there’s other things.” Sasha leaned in, lowering her voice. “I was talking to Cora today about some of the things in artifact storage? Jon overheard as he was walking by and he got . . . oddly upset. Went off on a whole rant about how there was nothing good down there and it would be better for everyone to keep their distance.”

“Well, I sort of get that.” Martin had been at the institute long enough to notice the high turnover rate in artifact storage. He’d heard stories. “That place is really creepy.”

“Sure. I don’t like going down there anyway.” Sasha shrugged. “But he was so  intense about it. Like he’s trying to keep something shut up there . . . not sure what, though. Kind of thinking of taking a look around, just to see if anything came in recently.”

She reached over towards Tim and grabbed the mug out of his hand, taking a sip from it. He glared at her in mock annoyance.

“And you know when I hurt my shoulder just a few days ago?” she continued. “I asked if he’d let me record a statement about what happened, since some of it was a little bit odd --”

“What  _did _ happen anyway?” Tim asked, “you keep dodging me on the details.”

“Why stop now?” Sasha grinned, taking another sip of Tim’s tea. “At any rate, he wouldn’t let me just tell him about it. Handed me a form and said that I should write it down and he would read it afterwards. Was insistent about it, too, even though Elias says we should be committing as many statements to audio as possible.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, and there’s something going on _there _ . Have you noticed the way he looks at Elias now?”

Martin blinked. “Not really.”

“Hate.” Sasha said. “Not his usual - ‘ah, how dare you have the temerity to exist in my immediate area while I’m working’ thing. I mean real,  _proper _ hatred.”

She paused dramatically to let that sink in. Martin frowned. He wasn’t entirely sure what it meant if she was right, but he didn’t like the thought of it. Elias was an okay boss, as far as he could tell - not that he had much experience. But there’d always been this edge to him, something in his eyes that made Martin never want to be on his bad side.

“At first I thought it was an ego thing, you know?” Sasha continued. “That Jon had some new ideas about how things should be done around here, that Elias pushed back on them, and now they were having a pissing contest.”

“Thank you for  _that _ horrible image.” Tim said.

“But aside from the recording, he’s not doing anything differently. There’s just this  tension  between them all of a sudden. Feels like something happened.” Sasha continued, taking another sip of tea. “Not that I have a clue what it is. Yet.”

“Okay Poirot.” Tim reached to grab the now mostly-empty mug back from her. “As long as you’re solving mysteries around here, how about you catch the villain that keeps stealing snacks from my desk? Sometimes in front of me, while I watch her do it?”

“Oooh. Dunno, Tim.” Sasha smiled. “Got to deal with one thing at a time, don’t I? Don’t want to overwork myself on an empty stomach.”

“Speaking of . . . I should probably get back to work.” Martin said, glancing at the pad of notes he’d been ignoring since Tim sat down and started chatting with him. “Got a lot to get through.”

Work had been piling up since he moved into the archive. He wasn’t getting the best sleep, and during the day he was distracted too often. Occasionally he’d spot what looked like one of Jane’s worms and have to drop everything to lift up boxes and move furniture, make certain there was nothing there. Not the best circumstances for productivity. Jon hadn’t commented on it yet, but he was sure to notice if he hadn’t already, and Martin didn’t want to spoil whatever tentative good will he’d gained too quickly.

“I can take some of it off your hands.” Tim said. “I’ve got nothing to do anyway.”

“Oh, uh --” Martin hesitated, looking at the small stack of folders beside him. “Are you sure? I mean, if you don’t mind. . . .”

“Sure. Archival assistants gotta stick together, right?” Tim smiled and gave Martin’s shoulder a gentle shove. Martin smiled back, something soft and grateful rising in him at the gesture.

“Well . . . take your pick, then- -” he held up the two folders containing statements he hadn’t started on yet. “We’ve got, let’s see . . . a guy who thinks his car is haunted because it’s been making funny noises and, uh . . . someone who claims her parrot is the reincarnation of her late husband.”

“Thrilling stuff.” Sasha muttered.

“I’ll take the parrot one.” Tim said, holding out a hand for the file. “I’m good with birds.”

Sasha shook her head and sighed. “Is it just me, or have all the cases we’ve been working on been really, really  _dull _ lately?”

“Hey, I’m developing a  _ real  _ appreciation for dull.” Martin held up a hand. “The last interesting case I looked into got me locked in my apartment for a week. I’m pretty happy to have something where the follow-up’s probably going to involve recommending a mechanic.”

“Hmm.” Sasha sighed, glancing with disinterest at the files she’d brought in. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Got some follow-up of my own to do.”

Martin saw Sasha grab her coat off a chair and walk back out the door, leaving the files untouched. He turned his attention back to his own work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, putting the novelty mugs from my other fanfic in this one: the MCU ain't got shit on me.


	3. Crawling and Many-Legged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets a song stuck in his head.

It galled Jon how at home he was in the institute. How right he felt among the stacks of folders and files, the detritus of academia. He should have taken more pleasure in returning to his flat each evening, a comfort he hadn’t had since the coma. But it always felt like retreating, an unfortunate if necessary pause. Put a simple meal together, do the dishes, shower, sleep a few hours, anxiously kill time until he could return. The archive was where he belonged, and he hated it.

It wasn’t safe there. But it wasn’t safe anywhere - this world had no sanctuary from the forces that gathered at the edges of Jon’s nightmares. In the archive he could still find the people he cared about most, and if he could see them, he could _keep_ them safe.

He was in what Tim called the ‘bullpen,’ where the others had their desks. The ceilings were high there, filled with nooks and crannies where shadows pooled and made you wonder, idly, if something could be hidden up there and spying on you. Sasha was at her desk, posed like an ancient statue, leaning forward on her elbows and reading from a file. Her long black hair was pulled into a messy bun and stuck through with pencils, which seemed unnecessary given she had two at her desk already, and another behind her ear. She seemed intently focused and Jon didn't wish to disturb her, but he had a question to ask.

"Have you seen Martin?"

"Nnnm-nnuh." Sasha muttered. It was either a no, or a meaningless sound she made while hoping he'd stop talking and leave her to read.

"I haven't seen him all day," Jon continued. "I'd wonder if he even came in, except he lives here now."

"Wouldn't know." Sasha looked up, meeting his eyes. She ran a hand through her close-cropped, auburn hair. "The archive is a big place, Jon. Maybe he got lost."

Jon frowned, unhappy at the thought, and turned back towards the stairs.

He found Tim at the bottom of the stairway, leaning against the wall and shuffling papers between his hands. Jon saw glimpses as he moved - lurid reds, yellows and pinks advertising circus acts, the writing all in Russian.

"Have you seen Martin, Tim?" Jon asked. "I need to talk to him about something. It's important."

"Can't help you, boss." Tim shrugged. "You can't keep an eye on everyone, you know?"

Jon might have replied to that, but he heard footsteps coming from further up the stairs, and all the thoughts went out of his head. The footfalls had a cadence that he recognized - the shy, careful tread of a heavy man used to stepping lightly, afraid he might make too much noise. Jon ran towards the stairs, but in his hurry he knocked Tim's hands and all the papers went scattering.

Several steps up already, Jon turned and winced. "Sorry."

Tim smiled, but his eyes were burning and there was smoke in his hair. Blood dripped from where his jaw was broken.

"I don't forgive you," he said.

Jon nodded. He understood. But he still had to find Martin, so he turned and went up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Martin's footsteps were distant and mist-muffled, and Jon had to strain to hear them. As he reached the top of the landing he was certain he saw him - just his outline, but there was no mistaking it. The silhouette vanished around the corner and Jon broke into a run again, following with the relentlessness of gravity. He ran through the hallways, taking turns and looking through doorways, but the fog kept collecting between them. Every time he caught a hint of direction - a shape in the distance, a shadow, a breath - it dissolved just as soon as he came closer.

At one point Jon could see Martin clearly, sharp and certain as he ducked into a room. Jon reached the door just as it was closing, but when he pulled it open Martin wasn't there. Instead, Jon saw two other figures, quietly speaking to one another.

"Basira? Melanie . . ." Jon looked around the room. "Did Martin come through here? I . . . I thought I just saw him."

Melanie turned, blood trailing down from where her eyes used to be. Her expression was solemn and composed.

"I need to speak to him." Jon continued. "I have something to tell him. There are so _many_ things I have to tell him . . . ."

Melanie shook her head. "He doesn't want to see you."

"You shouldn't be here." Basira came to stand beside Melanie. Her voice was the temperature of white hospital linen, of ice water brought begrudgingly. "You shouldn't have come back."

"I . . . I had to." Jon said quietly.

Basira shrugged, as if it wasn't worth arguing. "We can deal with it later."

A hand fell heavy on Jon's shoulder, and when he turned Georgie was there. Her eyes were just as he remembered them from a hundred terrible dreams, quiet, gray, and disappointed. The woman whose arms were wrapped around Georgie was quiet and gray as well, her head was shaved and a section of skull had been removed to expose the brain. She stared at him with eyes like a coroner's report.

"It was never a second chance." Georgie said with finality. "This isn't either."

Jon backed away, uncomfortable with the dead woman's eyes but even more so with Georgie's. Daisy said nothing from the corner where she crouched, jaw dripping, claws kneading the floor. Her gaze spoke clearly without any words, it fell on Jon and shouted, _run._

He did run, back into the hallway and as fast as he could. The floor twisted under him, the fog gathered, his scars bled. He ran in any and every direction until he'd lost all sense of where he was or what he was fleeing.

Only then did he finally stop. The hall ahead of him was a dead end - no doors, turns or exits, nowhere to leave to, and at the end of it was Martin. Jon could have wept. He hurried to the end of the hall.

"Martin . . . I have so much I need to tell you," he exhaled, dizzy with adrenaline, with running and relief. "Terrible things are going to happen here . . . ."

"I know, Jon." Martin said.

"No, you don't. You can't possibly." Jon stammered, breathless. "There - - there are people out there, trying to change the world in horrible ways. The Unknowing, and Elias, and - - and Peter Lukas, he's going to hurt you . . . ."

"I know, Jon." Martin's voice was patient, weary. As if he'd explained all this so many times. "I know it all. The Lonely, and the coma, and what you did to the world."

That . . . that was impossible. Martin couldn't know about any of that, could he? It didn't matter. None of it mattered, because none of it was as important as what he still had to say.

"I love you, Martin," he reached to touch the side of his face. "You mean the world to me. You were the reason I kept fighting, even after all was lost . . . ."

"Yes, Jon." Martin sighed heavily, removing Jon's hand from his cheek. "I know about everything. I lived through it all with you, remember?"

Jon couldn't see properly, and Martin's form kept shifting. His hair was longer, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His clothes were dirty, torn, and stained with blood that wasn't his. He carried a backpack that Jon recognized.

"But . . . you can't." Jon frowned. "None of that has happened yet."

Martin shook his head, a humorless smile on his face. The look he gave Jon lay somewhere between pity and contempt.

"Come on, Jon." He placed a hand against the wall, his fingers curved like knives. "Did you think any of this was real?"

Like a cheap backdrop, the wall came away in Martin's hand, and with it came the rest of the world. Jon saw the awful truth behind it. Of course . . . how could he have forgotten? He and Martin had never left the tower.

From where he stood Jon saw himself in the center of the Panopticon, right where he belonged. The Archive of the Ceaseless Watcher, forever witnessing, forever recording, a mindless and infinite repository of terror. Beside him was Martin, curled against the warped shell of Jon's body, knees tucked under his chin. Unwilling to leave, unable to die, eyes dim and without any hope.

With despair he beheld the only fate there could ever be for the two of them, and he saw his own mouth forming words. And the words his mouth formed were, "with despair he beheld the only fate there could ever be for the two of them, and he saw his own mouth forming - - "

_ Jon bolted upright, blinking in the dark of his bedroom. His phone was ringing. _

* * *

Cross-legged, Martin sat on middle of the camp bed and checked the time again. He _really_ needed to sleep. Each minute that passed just added to how tired he'd be in the morning. For a while now he'd been relying on black tea and nerves to keep him awake during the day, occasionally supplemented by a sneaky nap when there were still other people in the building. It got him through each week, but he knew he couldn't keep it up forever. What he _needed_ was a solid eight hours. But that chance was gone for the night, so he ought to have been making the most of what time there was.

Instead he set his phone on the stack of boxes that served as a bedside table and picked up a well-worn pocket notebook. There was a writing exercise he'd been working on, one he'd seen online somewhere. You were supposed to put down whatever words popped into your head - not thinking or editing at all. Then, after filling a page, you picked out a dozen or so and tried to make a poem out of them. Martin didn't really expect to produce anything worth looking at even by his own standards. All he wanted was to occupy his mind, focus on something that might settle his thoughts to the point where he could sleep. He looked back over the page he'd been writing on:

_ walls. door. closed. stuck. trapped. trap. pit. pitted. eaten. perforate. pick. dig. bore. burrow. squirm. scream. wring. writhe. anxious. panic. escape. run. hate. hate this. i hate this so much. so much so much so much. _

Lovely. All it needed was an artful splatter of blood and it would be the perfect prop to leave behind after he mysteriously disappeared one of these nights. He flipped the notebook closed.

Laying down was out of the question. Every time he tried, he'd feel something crawling over every inch of his body. No matter how firmly he told himself there would be nothing there, that there was _never_ anything there, it was no use. He'd last maybe a minute or so before leaping up, flipping on the lights and checking himself over for invaders.

No. He would just have to sit up and occupy himself until he dropped off from sheer exhaustion. It would happen eventually, hopefully soon. Meanwhile, he just had to turn his mind towards something calming. Something other than how tired he'd be in the morning. Or how vulnerable he was while he slept. Or how something might stand over him while his eyes were closed without him ever knowing. He just had to stop thinking about the sounds coming through the walls, or what had been in the hollows of Jane Prentiss's eyes. About how that basement had smelled, or how quickly those things had moved, or about wet, writhing segmented bodies crawling over one another, pressing up against this room from the outside until - -

Martin gripped his chest and counted in his head, trying to slow his breathing. This was a really bad night.

He checked the time again to find that less than fifteen minutes had passed, and a frustrated whine slipped out of him. He stared at the phone in his hand and thought about what Jon had said a few weeks ago.

_ This place is unsettling at night. A second perspective can be a breath of fresh air. _

He had _told _Martin to call him. Jon couldn't get mad at him for calling if he'd _told_ him to, could he? Or, well, he could, but it wouldn't be very fair of him. Really, the way the past month had gone, Martin found he was less concerned about sparking Jon's ire than he used to be. Mostly he was embarrassed at the thought of phoning him up to explain that he couldn't sleep because of phantom worms. What exactly did Martin expect him to do about that, anyway? Check under the bed for Jane Prentiss? Read him a bedtime story?

The image of himself curled up in bed while Jon read Tolkien to him was both ridiculous and embarrassingly appealing. He'd heard Jon do recordings before, once even overheard him singing to himself, and he _did_ have a good voice. In fact, having Jon read something out loud to him, even just over the phone, would probably be really, really nice, whether it helped him sleep or not. Martin would _definitely_ rather be eaten by worms than suggest it.

If Martin did call, Jon would probably say he was being irrational. And maybe he was?

Well. Not _too_ irrational. Everyone had spotted worms chewing and crawling around the institute's baseboards _._ They probably _followed_ him here, which was great, just a wonderful possibility to consider. What was it that people said about infestations? For every one you see, there's a hundred more you don't see? So actually, yes, he was being extremely rational in general and if anything he should be _more_ concerned that --

_ something was crawling on the back of his neck down his back crawling squirming wriggling _

Martin bolted away from the bed, yanked off his nightshirt and reached frantically around himself. His hands couldn't cover the full expanse of his back, so he grabbed a metal-edged ruler from nearby, swiping between his shoulder blades where he could still feel the slow, slick, trailing _something . . . ._

By the time he made it to the bathroom, the sensation had faded. He still took the time to examine his back in the mirror, craning his neck to see. No worms. No holes. A few long, red scratches he'd given himself with the corner of the ruler, trailing wide over his shoulders. The florescent light shone off a sheen of sweat between his shoulder blades, and as he watched a drop of it creep down his spine that crawling feeling zipped through him again. That was it. That was all. Just his own sweat and nerves.

He splashed some water on his face before pulling his shirt back on and trudging morosely to the cot, face burning, glad that at least there had been no one around to see. He picked his phone up from where he had dropped it, relieved that the screen wasn't cracked. Looked at the time again. 1:43.

Just someone to talk to, he thought as he opened his contacts. Just a few minutes of another human voice, even if it only told him to stop imagining things and go to sleep. He pressed the call button and the phone rang.

" _Yes?_ Hello?" Jon's voice was groggy, with a sharp edge of irritation to it. "What is it?"

Martin winced. Of course he'd woken him up. He'd said that he kept odd hours, that meant it was all right to call him after _ten_ , not after one. He briefly considered hanging up and pretending that this hadn't happened.

" _Hello?_ Is anyone there?" The edge in Jon's voice increased, dipping into anger. Martin heard him mutter something about automated calls.

"Hi. Sorry." Martin said. "I know it's late . . ."

"Oh. No, no, it's fine." Jon's voice changed immediately, dropping to a gentler tone. "What is it? Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure." Martin swallowed, mouth dry. "It's probably all in my head, but, well, what you said about another perspective . . . ."

"Of course. What - -" Jon stifled a yawn. "What's troubling you?"

Martin was hit then by just how little had actually happened. A few odd noises and his mind conjuring danger from sweat. Trying to explain the last few hours in a way that didn't sound completely stupid felt impossible.

There was silence on the line for much too long, and then, "Martin? Are you still there?"

"Yeah, sorry. Just hit me how underwhelming this is going to sound," he said apologetically. "Probably wasn't worth waking you over."

Again there was silence. Martin found himself thinking if the worms had been waiting for a particular moment to fall on him, bore through his flesh and eat whatever part of his brain thought phoning Jon at two am was a good idea, he'd be up for it right about then.

"It's fine, Martin. Really." Jon said. "I'm glad you called. I . . . appreciate that you would reach out to me. Obviously I asked you to, but, still."

Martin blinked, surprised at the sincerity in Jon's tone. It was reassuring, and it tied itself up around a handful of other things he'd been feeling lately, enough that he felt able to talk.

"All right, well . . . I think there might be something in the walls."

There was a heavy pause before Jon spoke. "In the walls."

"Yes, in the walls!" The tension that had been winding in Martin for hours hadn't left, and something in Jon's tone made him defensive. "Is that really hard to believe? Infestations usually start in walls, don't they? If those things are, making, I don't know, nests. . . ."

Against his will, Martin found himself imagining what those things would make nests out of. The visual of half a dozen hole-shot bodies entered his mind, curled like mummies between the rooms, mouths writing with larvae and opened as if to scream. He shuddered.

"No, no, it's - - it's a logical concern." Jon said. "But you're not thinking of - - that is, you're not cutting holes in them, are you?"

"Oh." Martin flushed. "No, no. I'm not going to start knocking down walls or anything, if that's what you're worried about. I just hear things through them sometimes. Especially at night."

"What sort of things?" Jon asked. "Er . . . worm noises?"

"Sort of. Well, no. I mean. Maybe?" Martin sighed, "okay, the thing is . . . there's the usual old building sounds. And I know that probably _most_ of what I'm hearing is the pipes, right? But there's other sounds underneath that and - - yeah," he started to pick up speed, talking faster and thinking less about it "- - sometimes it does sound a lot like something's crawling around in there, and that's not even getting into the voices - -"

"Wait, voices?" Jon cut in sharply.

Martin winced. He hadn't meant to mention that part, but he was tired and anxious and couldn't keep a lid on things. It had just slipped out.

"Um. Yes. Sort of," he said quietly. "Sometimes."

"Are they saying anything specific?"

"Not really? Just sort of indistinct, maybe not even words. It's more like. There's a melody to it? Not something you could hum, but . . . it sort of sticks in your head. Sometimes I get it running through my mind during the day, you know, but I only actually hear it at night, so . . . ." Martin trailed off, keenly aware of how insane he sounded.

There was a very long pause on the other end. When Jon spoke again, his voice was slow and careful. "You haven't been sitting up and listening to it, have you?"

Internally, Martin groaned. "Look, I _know_ how it sounds, Jon, I just- -"

"Martin. _Martin._ " Jon raised his voice, covering Martin's protest. "I believe you."

"I - what?"

"I _promise_ , I believe you." Jon said. "Please, just . . . have you been listening to it? The . . . the singing."

It was the fear in Jon's voice more than his actual words that made Martin pause and consider his answer.

"Not on purpose, I guess. I still _hear_ it of course. Sometimes I try to cover it with music or, uh, forest noises, but that never really works. But it's not as if I'm _trying_ to listen."

"Does it . . . ." Jon laughed weakly, "this is probably going to sound like an absolutely deranged question but, does it sound like it's _for you?_ "

Martin couldn't explain the sudden lunge of fear in his gut when Jon asked him that.

"Wh-what?"

"Does it sound like something is singing _to_ you? You specifically?"

The question was strange, but it resonated. There was a feeling he got sometimes sitting up in bed, half-dazed with exhaustion. It was hard to put a name to, but it felt familiar.

Come to think of it, he knew what that feeling reminded him of. It was a boy named Colin from his first year of secondary school. That was back before the growth spurts had turned Martin into the too-big, too-obvious teen he'd eventually become, when he was still a high-voiced fat little boy. Colin had been bigger and older, and he would insert himself into Martin's life at random, meeting him at the corner on his walk to school or sidling up to him in the lunchroom. Hitting him up for any money he might have, which was never very much, or making jokes that Martin felt obliged to laugh along with even though they were at his expense. Sometimes he'd muss Martin's hair in a manner that felt almost friendly, or pinch and poke at his chubby sides in a way that decidedly wasn't.

Martin was fairly sure Colin hadn't had any friends either, and maybe in some other world they could have bonded over that, but Colin didn't want a friend in Martin. He'd marked him as a pushover who would put up with him for the poor excuse for companionship that he sometimes provided. And he'd been right. Colin had been better than nothing.

"It sounds . . . friendly." Martin said after a pause. "But . . . not a _nice_ sort of friendly. More cruel. If that makes sense."

Jon muttered something to himself that Martin couldn't hear, then spoke again into the phone.

"Are you dressed?" He asked.

"I - - _What?_ "

"Are you dressed?" Jon repeated. "Have you got shoes on? Are you wearing clothes that you can go outside in?"

"Um." Martin glanced towards the suitcase where he kept most of his clothing. "I could be in a moment?"

"Good. Get on what you need, then get outdoors as quickly as possible. Take anything essential that you can easily grab. Wallet, phone, keys, that sort of thing. Wait for me just outside the Institute." There was more shifting and dragging, the sounds of him moving things around. "I can get there in about half an hour, depending on the trains."

"Why? What's this about?"

"Just wait for me there." Jon's voice was sharp, but there was an audible current of fear running through it. "And - and don't listen to any singing. I'll be there as quickly as I can."

Before Martin could ask anything further, the call ended.


	4. No Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin deal with some things that have been gnawing at them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while to get out, but it's almost as long as the previous three chapters combined. So think of it as three updates in one? Maybe? Anyway here it is.

Martin drew his coat in closer, wishing he'd worn more layers. He'd been in such a hurry to leave that he'd thrown on his coat, socks and shoes right over his pajamas. But that was before he'd spent what felt like more than half an hour in the cold night air, feeling foolish, wondering if he ought to have taken the time to dress properly. Or charge his phone, it would have certainly been nice to have that as a distraction.

Well, too late now. He was there, standing outside the Institute and waiting for Jon to arrive. Hopefully with an explanation.

When he finally appeared at the end of the block, Martin noticed the backpack he was caryying, one of those big, padded ones favored by hikers. It seemed like an odd thing for him to have, he never seemed the outdoorsy type. But then, Martin supposed that people could surprise you. He leaned out from behind the column and waved so that he was more visible, and Jon's face took on a measure of relief.

"Ah, good." Jon closed the distance between them in a quick jog. "Everything all right? No, ah, pest problems on your way out?"

"Didn't see any worms, no." Martin said. "Maybe they're shy about the cold."

He hadn't intended the note of complaint in his voice when he said that. But Jon didn't seem to notice it, and if he saw anything odd about how Martin was dressed he gave no sign of that either. He was oddly energized.

"All right," he said, "there's a motel about three blocks that way. Nothing luxurious, but it's open, and according to online reviews it doesn't have bedbugs. You're booked for three nights there, you'll just have to show identification."

A dozen objections fought their way through Martin's brain. As little as he wanted to go back to his cot in the archive, wasn't he staying there because it was safer? What if Jane found him at the motel? Also, he couldn't afford to move into a motel!

"Wait, I can't just- - "

"It's been paid for," Jon interrupted, anticipating at least one of his concerns. "And that much is done already, so there's no point in arguing. I'm sure you could use a good night's sleep, now, off you go."

He gestured back towards the direction he'd come from, as if shooing Martin away. It was the gesture as much as anything else that made Martin dig in his heels.

"Wh- - no! First tell me what's going on! Why did I suddenly have to leave? And what is all that stuff you've got for?!"

"Martin, _please!_ " Jon seemed to catch himself as he raised his voice, and stopped. He took a deep breath, pressing his palms together in front of his face, then continued in a slow, controlled tone. "I promise, I'll explain things tomorrow morning. But right now, I need you to go to the motel, and spend the night there, and not come back to the Institute tonight. Can you do that for me?"

Martin pressed his mouth into a hard line. Frustration and worry and an embarrassing desire to just do what he asked because he sounded so _earnest_ wrestled in him. It may have been sheer physical exhaustion that won out in the end, because after a moment of silence, he reluctantly nodded. Jon stood, looking expectantly at him. Already feeling like he was making a mistake, Martin walked a few steps past him.

"Three blocks this way?" he asked, not really needing the clarification.

Jon nodded. "There's a neon sign out front, it'll be obvious."

". . . See you tomorrow, then."

He continued down the block, occasionally glancing back and seeing Jon standing there, still in place, watching him walk away. It only added to the strangeness of it all, and eventually Martin just looked at the ground in front of him. Everything about this felt wrong and weird and maybe it was just because he'd started accepting "wrong" and "weird" as descriptors of his life nowadays that he was going along with it.

Especially where Jon was concerned. Everything was weird where Jon was concerned.

Was it something personal Jon had with Jane Prentiss? That could explain why he'd believed Martin's story so readily when he was ordinarily such a skeptic. Did he have some past experience with her, a personal vendetta? Had he come here tonight for revenge?

Martin slowed his pace and looked back again. Jon was nowhere to be seen, but from where he stood Martin noticed lights inside the building being turned on.

 _Hell with it_ , he thought, and headed back towards the institute at a jog.

* * *

Jon looked forward to being able to set the backpack down, just carrying it from the train station had made his shoulders ache. He'd been buying CO2 for days, he'd intended to take another week or two to sneak supplies into the Institute more gradually. But he was ready enough. And he wasn't letting this continue for another night.

He'd known these months were hard for Martin, known about the anxiety and paranoia, but _this?_ Was the Hive singing to Martin just as it had sung to Jane? And had it always sung to him? Was this new? Jon couldn't imagine how his actions so far might have altered events to cause it. Then had it been this bad the first time around? Martin hadn't ever mentioned hearing these things, _feeling_ these things before.

But then, he wouldn't have at the time, would he? And later, during those quiet nights in the cabin where they'd speak softly to one another about things too fragile for daylight, these early days had already begun to feel distant. Other nightmares, other traumas had overwhelmed them in their immediacy. He might have just never mentioned it.

It didn't matter. Whether this was a new development or not, it wasn't going to go any further.

He wondered if he ought to have walked Martin to the motel, rather than leaving him the way he did - alone, downtown in the middle of the night. Then he shook his head, dismissing the thought.

"For God's sake, he's not a child whose hand you need to hold," Jon muttered to himself. "He's a grown man who's survived one supernatural attack already. I'm sure he can manage three blocks on a well-lit street on his own."

Martin would be fine, and if perhaps Jon just _wanted_ to have walked Martin there, to have spent a few quiet moments with him before facing this . . . well, it wasn't relevant now. That moment had passed and he needed to focus on the task at hand. He couldn't fail. If he died now, Elias would start his plans over with a new Archivist, probably Sasha, and that was unacceptable.

He had a plan, he had the memories of a man who had wandered the tunnels a thousand times. He had fire extinguishers, torches, a hatchet from a hardware store, and - just in case - a corkscrew. There would be no security in the building until six am, so no one else would be in danger, and he was months ahead of schedule so their numbers should still be low. He could do this. He found the right spot and began working.

It was difficult - the wall that had crumpled into rot when he'd slammed his palm against it the first time seemed stubbornly well-built now, taking several cracks with the hatchet just to open a few inches of space. When the hole was barely big enough for a fist Jon pulled back, waiting for any reaction. None. So he went back to swinging until the hole was big enough to step through.

He shone the a torch into the darkness beyond. The tunnels stretched down as expected, but besides that there was nothing - no quick, squirming movement, no Prentiss. He took as thorough a look as he dared, casting light into every crevice. Nothing at all.

Was he _too_ early? Surely the awful things were there, but how far along were they in their own preparations? Doomed to fail or not, he needed their ritual to be put down as they attempted it or the Corruption might continue to attack the institute, making further attempts that Jon couldn't predict. All he really had on his side was his knowledge of their movements, if he lost _that_ \- -

"Jon, what--"

He leaped back and screamed, spinning around. Martin stood by the door, flinching from his reaction. Jon leaned heavily on his desk, every nerve lit up with shock.

"Martin," he growled. For the first time since the new memories, he found he felt genuine _anger_ towards him. "What are you doing here!? I told you to _leave._ "

"I know! I know! But- -" he held his hands up defensively, his voice rising in pitch, fast and nervous. "It's obvious that something's going on here, and I don't know what it is you're doing with - - with _that - -_ " he gestured at the hole. "Or what your history with Jane Prentiss is - -"

"I don't - - you need to _go - -_ "

"And I know you think I can't help with whatever this is. But I _could_ if you'd just trust me enough to tell me what's happening- -"

"Please . . . " Jon glanced uneasily back towards the hole. How far into the tunnels did sound carry? Would the noise of their talking attract something? "We can't - - I can't do this now - -"

"- - And anyway, this is my fault, isn't it?" Martin lowered his hands, a tremor entering his voice. "I'm the one they followed here. If . . . if they're here because of me, I should - - I want to help . . . ."

Jon's shoulder's slumped, the quick, shallow anger melting off of him. He looked at the person in front of him and wondered who he really was.

Had Martin's voice sounded like that the day he'd apologized for losing him in the tunnels, so full of sorrow and self-reproach? Had that small, quiet furrow appeared in his brow when he'd tried so valiantly, so fruitlessly, to make Jon and Tim speak to each other again? When he'd confronted Elias, had he taken that same stance Jon saw in him now - determined, stubborn, but hands trembling at his sides, anticipating the worst? Or was it foolish to even ask these questions, to look for someone who wasn't yet real in the face of a person who was?

"Martin . . ." he sighed, "this isn't your fault. This is - - well, it's bigger than either of us. And - -" he rallied again, stepping closer to turn him physically towards the door, " - - and I'm sorry but this just isn't the time for a heart to heart. You have to get out of here before - -"

It was hard to tell who heard it first, but they both froze when they recognized it. The wet, sticky, crackling sound of a thousand squirming bodies.

" _Jon_. . . ." Martin whispered, staring over his shoulder.

He turned just in time to see it happening - - tiny, silver things dripped from the edges of the hole in the wall, swarming over the floor with impossible speed. They seemed to multiply, doubling and tripling before their eyes. Jon grabbed an extinguisher, pressing himself in front of Martin.

"Get back," he shouted. "Get _back. Run!!_ "

To his relief, Martin ran, bolting through the door. The sound of his footsteps vanished back towards the hall and Jon gave silent thanks to the fight or flight response. He wouldn't have far to go before he was out of the archive and _safe_ , and in the meantime Jon would keep their attention on him. He opened the valve of the extinguisher and pushed forwards, spraying everything that moved. The worms died off en masse, the slow ones thrashing and going still, the quick ones retreating back into the tunnels. He slung the regrettably still heavy pack over his shoulder and moved on - he'd need to find Prentiss, get to where the circle of corruption had been forming and put it all down.

He was barely a few feet into the tunnel when something felt off. Something wet and cold hit the back of his neck, and pure reflex made him bring a hand up to slap it away. There was a tense moment then, as Jon realized that he hadn't yet looked _up_.

Deep inside him, he still felt the echoes of a thousand fates worse than death, of horrors he had witnessed and fed upon in another lifetime. A part of him that knew these things so intimately, understood there was a shape and a rhythm to them and it knew what had to happen next. The thing that would be his doom was waiting for him to realize it was there, to understand, to _feel_ that fear all the way to his core. A part of Jon knew, all things considered, the worst thing he could do at that moment was look up.

That part of him did not control the muscles of his neck, however, and instinct can be so hard to resist. As he turned upwards, the writhing carpet that covered the tunnel's ceiling split apart and rained down upon him.

His reflexes were still not enviable as he dove back towards the opening. He narrowly avoided being buried alive, but dozens landed on his arms, throat and face. They slipped down the neckline of his shirt and latched on to the tender skin below, and still more were crawling after him. He'd acted as if they were ordinary creatures, mindless bugs that would crawl one way or another, not capable of setting a trap. He should have known better. He _did_ know better, but he'd charged forward like a fool, and now they were on him and _in_ him and for each one he managed to claw out out two more were burrowing down. He couldn't let this happen, they couldn't have him, he couldn't die now but the pain was blinding and the panic was frothing and his hands were too slow and there were too many - -

A cold, white cloud enveloped him. He coughed once, then instinctively stopped breathing in. His mind was a chaos of _don't breathe_ and _get them out_ and _can't see can't see can't see,_ and the strong hands grabbed his shoulders and dragged him towards the door. Jon stumbled, blinking through the pain - eyes tearing, vision blurry. He could _feel_ the vile things dying inside him and he wanted to scream but he didn't dare open his mouth. He strained to see if there were still worms coming (yes) where they were coming from (everywhere) and who was pulling him to safety (he already knew, of course he knew, he had known from the moment the gas hit him.)

Still half-blind, he felt the hands leave him and heard the sound of a slamming door. He barely registered it, his ability to think was quickly narrowing to a single point of revulsion, the need to get them _out of him_ _now._ He felt for what he needed in the pocket of his bag.

He got them out. It was painful and messy, he was bleeding and his wounds were screaming agony but they were _empty_ , thank God, and that was enough. Slowly, his mind and vision both cleared.

Martin knelt a few feet away, shoving some sort of cloth under the door to block the cracks. He looked frightened, very frightened, but there was a single-minded focus to him as he secured a barrier between them and the mass of parasites that were flooding into the next room. When it seemed like it would hold, he turned back towards Jon and his face went ashen.

"Oh my God . . . ."

It took Jon a moment to realize that ah yes, he probably did look gruesome. Swaying on his feet, dotted in holes with a bloody corkscrew in his hand.

A strange, stupid smile began to spread across his face, and quite against his will he began to laugh. At first it was a quiet, breathy thing, then it ran away from him and he was shaking with it, knees wobbly, tears trailing down his face. The look of confusion and fear on Martin's face got worse, and Jon wanted to stop, he really did, but it just wasn't possible.

He truly was a fool. How could he have thought, even for a moment, that Martin would run to safety and leave him behind?

Jon sank to the floor, the moment of mad laughter passing. Martin pulled hesitantly from the door and took a step towards him.

"Um. . . are you . . . all right?"

There was uncertainty in his voice, and Jon suspected he wasn't just referring to his wounds. Still trembling a little, smiling like an absolute idiot, he nodded.

"Respiratory acidosis," he muttered. "Must be. From breathing in the gas."

"Oh." Martin glanced nervously at the door, which held for now. "Is that serious?"

"I'll be fine." Jon shook his head, tried to take a measure of himself and see how accurate that actually was.

The pain was distracting, but not debilitating. He doubted he'd be able to do much with his left arm for a while, but they hadn't gotten to his legs. Which meant that he could run, and he could hold a weapon. Which meant that this wasn't over. He slid the bag of canisters off his shoulder and held it out to Martin.

"Here. You're stronger than I am." As an afterthought, he added, "I imagine."

"Oh- - all right?" Martin took the backpack, confusion writ large across his features. "Look, I don't know how long the door will hold, we should - -"

Martin was turning towards the exit, gesturing for him to follow, and that wouldn't do. Jon grabbed at his arm, gripping it with a bleeding hand.

"No. Not that way," he said, taking a few steps towards the hall. "Over here. There's another way in."

"Another way into what?"

"You saw that passage beyond the wall, the one they were pouring out of, correct?" Martin nodded, and he continued. "There's another way in, but we'll have to hurry. As you said, that door might not last."

" _Excuse_ me?" Martin gaped at him. The poor man had surely assumed they'd be fleeing the building, but that would have to wait. "Why are we going _towards_ where the worms are!?"

 _We_ , Jon thought. He felt a manic grin spread across his face.

"To finish this," he said, looking back over his shoulder. "You said you wanted to help, didn't you?"

He took off before Martin could protest, something rising in him that he couldn't name - it felt like a laugh or like a scream but it was silent and blinding and bright. He was running, and he was trailing blood, and he heard Martin catching up behind him. And Prentiss could be anywhere and they weren't safe, weren't safe, and no place in this _world_ was safe. But if Jon couldn't send Martin out of danger he could at least keep him close. And he knew - oh, he _knew_ \- that if he ran, Martin would follow him.

* * *

Jon had lost his mind, there was no doubt about that. But Martin was the one running after a madman, so he probably didn't have room to judge.

They ended up in another room where Jon had started knocking at a wall, listening for something. When he found it, he wordlessly grabbed a chair and used it as a makeshift battering ram, smashing open another hole. Martin wondered what it said about him that despite the real, horrific danger they were in a part of him still worried about getting in trouble for all the damage they were causing to the building. That part of him vanished, though, when he heard the door down the hallway splinter and burst, and he hurried to join Jon in pulling away sections of damaged wall. It didn't seem like a proper wall anyway, just a layer of plaster, and in a moment they were through it and down a dark passageway, running again.

The tunnels turned like a maze, but Jon somehow seemed to know where they were going -- he grabbed Martin's hand at the first fork, pulling him to the left with no explanation beyond "this way," and didn't let go after that. Martin quickly lost track of the dizzying turns and found himself hoping that the ‘run your hand along the right wall' trick really worked, because he had no idea how they were going to get back if it didn't.

It was scary, god, it was terrifying. But it was also a little bit thrilling? Running through a network of secret tunnels that had apparently just _been_ there, just hidden under Martin's feet the entire time he'd been at the Institute. Jon guiding them along based on some direction or intuition Martin couldn't fathom. It was almost surreal. When he'd first met Jon, he'd been sharp and stern and intimidating. In time, Martin had come to decide that a lot of his manner was an act, beneath which was someone odd and a little awkward but well-meaning at least. Now it seemed there was another layer under _that_ , and this one Martin couldn't figure out at all. Breaking into the Institute in the middle of the night, going after supernatural infestations? He was like a character from an action movie.

 _Well,_ Martin reconsidered, as Jon stumbled ahead, muttering under his breath. _Maybe not one of those big budget action movies. Some sort of indie film, or maybe a satire._

At one point when they paused for breath, he looked over and saw a few spiders that had crawled onto the back of Jon's neck - four of them, big ones too. Jon didn't seem to have noticed them yet, and he wondered if he could shoo them off without altering him, knowing what an arachnophobe he was. But a sound from down the tunnel distracted him, and when he looked back the spiders were gone. So he stopped thinking about it.

Eventually they reached a dead end, and Jon held an arm out to stop Martin from going any farther. He really didn't need to - the chamber ahead of them was _full_ of worms, and he felt nausea roiling up as the smell hit his nose. Weirdly, the awful little creatures didn't seem interested in them at all. They were too focused on doing. . . something. Something that involved wrapping around one another in a huge, growing circle.

He had no idea what they'd stumbled into - - horrific possibilities of _worm reproduction_ had barely entered his mind before he was ready to run. But then Jon called at him to start spraying gas into the room and he realized with a sinking sensation that this place was what they'd been running towards all along.The two of them emptied everything they had in there, not stopping until they were sure everything was dead. Jon nodded with satisfaction and took off running again, and Martin was once more focused on keeping up.

It seemed that they were headed back to the institute. Even lost and disoriented, some intuition told him they were returning to light and warmth and surface, away from the dark damp of the tunnels. Relief washed over him as they clambered through the hole in the wall and out into the hallway, escape finally in sight.

That was when they ran into Prentiss.

It was as if she'd been waiting outside the door, ready to pounce. Martin moved on reflex, throwing an arm around Jon's smaller frame and pulling him into the nearest room. He turned the lock and pressed himself against the door just as he heard Jane slam against it heavily. Jon was once more operating under some indecipherable internal logic, rooting through boxes, overturning files and moving furniture. Martin didn't even ask, just braced himself against the door as Jane thudded against it, over and over.

This wasn't the steady knocking he'd come to dread after a week in his apartment. This had _force_ behind it. Could she break the door down if she tried?

Just as he asked himself that question, the knocking stopped. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for . . . well, he wasn't sure, honestly. What he _heard_ was Jane stepping back and moving down the hall, which ought have been a good thing, but just put him more on edge.

He leaned against the door, straining to hear, and suddenly he felt something cold and moving drip onto him.

Somehow, he manged not to scream. He kept the panic still and quiet inside him as he pulled away from the door and saw the crack that Jane's impact had made above him. He looked up saw the worms that were crawling out of it. He looked down and saw the worms that had latched onto his arm. He didn't need to see worms that had latched onto his head and neck to know _exactly_ where they were. Hand shaking, he went for the front pocket of Jon's bag where he'd seen him stick a corkscrew - and God, what did it say that Jon had gotten the _exact same idea_ as him for this? He held the sharp end over his face, grimacing, bracing himself.

Something spoke. It said, _please._

Martin stopped moving, hand an inch from his cheek.

_ Please . . . . _

There hadn't been a voice, exactly. Not something he'd heard in his ears or even inside his mind so much as felt somewhere deep in his bones.

_ Please . . . I need you. _

Not words, but the meaning was as clear and articulate as any language. No, more so. There was no room for doubt or confusion, he understood its need in a way that words and knowledge and intonation would never be able to convey. A second voice joined the first, pained and formless and demanding.

_ We need you.  _

_It hurts. It's so harsh and so bright, this cruel sterile scrutiny. It's so cold, and you are so, so warm. _

_Warm and dark, filled with heat and with hiding and dark, damp things never to see the light_. _We need your heat. We need your limbs and your stomach and the gently gurgling secrets of you._

_ Please. We need your heart. It hangs so soft and tender between the lattice of your ribs.  _

_ We need your throat, pink and heavy with words unspoken. _ _We can give it new language, a tongue understood by everything warm and wet and living. _

Time was moving syrup-slow. The panic that had lit Martin's veins grew sluggish, his thoughts crawled. The voices came lovingly, hungrily, and he made no move to dig them out.

They pulled at something in him. At an emptiness that ached whenever he looked at other people and sensed they were a world that he couldn't be part of. He felt something whispering that the painful hollow inside him could be filled. It spoke of movement pouring into him, eating the parts that hurt, filling him until he could no longer remember being without it. The thought made him shiver, but with it came a strange, growing warmth.

It should hurt more, some sensible part of his brain observed, so many of them burrowing into him. There was pain, but it was distant and dreamlike. Almost satisfying. Like the not-quite-pleasurable feeling that compels you to pull at a sore tooth, to pick a scab, to squeeze a pimple. The more he listened, the deeper the voices went . . . the closer he felt himself coming to that wonderful moment of release when the boil finally splits.

_ We need all of you, every inch. _

_ So cold so hungry so hurt so alone.  _

_ Open and blossom and bloom and rot. _

_ You're ours. You're ours. Let us give you our song. _

A crash came from behind him, loud enough to shake his focus. Revulsion at what he'd been thinking washed over him, and he dug the sharp tine into his face as quickly and violently as he could, over and over, until the tiny, terrible things that had been crawling their way into him went silent. Shaking, bleeding, Martin backed away from the door.

Behind him, Jon had been dumping the contents of file boxes onto a table, piling paper statements on top of one other until he'd made a small heap. A cabinet was knocked over - probably the crash Martin had heard - and he'd used it to climb onto a second one where he now crouched, lighter in hand.

"Closet door's on the opposite wall," he shouted, barely even glancing at Martin. "Get ready to run!"

The lighter flicked on. The flame caught the page in Jon's hand, and he held it at arm's length, waiting for something. For a moment, Martin didn't understand. Then the fire alarm went off, and he understood horribly well. Jon dropped the burning pages onto the pile where the fire caught and spread, then leapt from the cabinet. Movement returned to Martin's limbs as he realized what the room would soon be filled with. They reached the door in seconds, scrambling inside and slamming it shut just as CO2 flooded everything.

A scream ripped through the air, one Martin felt more than heard. Thousands and thousands of things without mouths, crying out as one. It filled him, crescendoed, then died out leaving his knees weak.

Shuffling in the dark, then the sound of Jon knocking against something. As awareness of his body returned, Martin felt a light bulb dangling near his head. He pulled the cord and light filled the small space of what looked like a janitor's storage closet. Jon was on his hands and knees, he'd removed his jacket and was stuffing it in the crack beneath the door.

"Not a perfect seal against the gas, but hopefully good enough," he muttered, turning back towards Martin. When he looked up his face fell, he seemed suddenly heartbroken. "They got you too? I didn't even see. . . ."

"Oh. Yeah," he reached to touch his face and was punished by sharp, stinging pain as a finger brushed one of his wounds. "They came in through a crack in the door. Got them all out, though."

"Are you sure? Certain you got them _all_?"

"Think I'd know if I missed one. It's not exactly a subtle sensation."

Jon stood, looking at him searchingly. "And you definitely didn't . . . _let_ any of them stay in you?"

"Sorry, _what?_ "

"Answer the question, Martin." 

"No?" Martin's tone must have been uncertain, because Jon's frowned deepened, so he tried again. "No! Of course not!"

". . . All right." Jon nodded solemnly, after a pause. "I trust you."

With no explanation beyond _that,_ he turned to examine the rest of the room. He clambered onto an overturned bucket, bracing himself against a shelf that was so unsteady Martin had to bite back a reflexive warning to be careful. He stood nearby - there was nowhere to stand that _wasn't_ nearby, it was big for a closet but still a closet - hands half raised so at least he'd be there to keep him from cracking his head if he fell, as Jon stood on his toes and examined the vent near the ceiling.

"It's giving out air," he announced. He placed a hand on Martin's arm and stepped down, using him as support. "There's no CO2 vents in any of the closets. As long as the seal on the door holds, we should be all right here. You aren't claustrophobic, are you?"

"Not really." Martin said. "You?"

"A lot more than I used to be." Jon smiled ruefully. "But I can handle this fine."

He sat down heavily on the bucket, exhaling with the effort. He no longer looked anything like the hero from a movie of any genre, really. Just tired, and small, and very, very chewed on.

Martin began rummaging through the shelves. Jon lifted his head and looked curiously at him, but said nothing. After a moment, he found what he'd been looking for and held it out with a triumphant grin.

"First aid kit," he said, as if the red cross on the bag wasn't clear enough. "Thought there might be one in here."

"Oh, thank God." Jon said. "Does it have painkillers?"

Martin unzipped it, taking stock of what was inside. "Yeah, in little packets. Aspirin and acetaminophen, you got a preference?"

"Either. Both," he held out his hands. "Please," he added.

Martin passed him a couple of packets, then sat on the floor and ripped two open for himself. The half-sweet sensation he'd felt a little bit ago had turned back into pain, and he swallowed the pills dry. He took a little bottle of alcohol and some squares of gauze from the kit and turned back to Jon, who was looking at the holes in his own arm with grotesque fascination. He seemed miles away. Martin cleared his throat and he turned, blinking at him.

"Here . . . let me do the ones on your face." Martin said. "We should get those disinfected as quick as we can."

Jon frowned. "You need tending to as well . . . you're bleeding."

"Yes. But you've had your wounds open and bleeding and exposed to God only knows what for a while now. We should do you first."

For a moment it seemed like he might protest. Then he wavered, shrugged and leaned forward, silently accepting. Martin dabbed at one of the wounds which was already an angry red at the edges, and Jon flinched back, a sharp _ah_ of air as he breathed in.

"Sorry. Probably stings a bit."

"Mmnhmm."

He leaned in again, this time only tensing as the gauze touched him. Martin moved carefully over the ridges of Jon's face, using up one square of gauze after another, tossing each used one into a tray that was probably used for painting. A little pile built up, bloody and stained with something dark that he didn't want to think about.

"Do you think they're still out there?"

"The worms? Unlikely." Jon glanced towards the door. "We took care of the ones deep in the tunnels, and the fire system should have taken out the rest. There weren't really a lot of them."

Martin gave Jon a look.

"What?" he asked.

"What exactly counts as _a lot_ of worms to you?"

"Fair enough," he smirked. "What I mean is, I think the CO2 got them all."

Martin shook his head and dug around in the kit, finding bandages and medical tape. "I never thought I'd see you of all people start a fire in the archive. . . ."

"Hmm, yes." Jon got a strange sort of smile on his face, something wicked and satisfied. ". . . Well, anyway, you heard that scream. It sounded . . . terminal."

"Yeah. Wish I didn't hear it, but yeah." Martin shivered. "S'probably gonna be in my dreams for a while."

He finished the damage that was on Jon's face and neck, passing the kit to him so he could take care of the rest himself. Jon did so haphazardly, scrubbing at the marks on his arm hard enough to make Martin wince, though he said nothing.

"The real danger now is the CO2." Jon continued, tearing open a bandage with his teeth. "It'll take some time to disperse enough for us to get out. Do you have a phone?"

"Battery's dead. Wasn't able to charge it. You?"

"Dropped it while running, I think. Doesn't matter. Shouldn't be more than a few hours before the morning staff gets in and sees the state of things. If they've any sense at all they'll call the ECDC, who'll come in looking for survivors," he smiled wryly. "Then we'll have all the fun of quarantine to look forward to."

Martin stared. Jon shifted, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Who _are_ you?" He gestured in Jon's direction, trying to indicate, just, all of him. "Five weeks ago I couldn't convince you that no one is ‘naturally' suffocated by _cobwebs,_ and now you're coming in the middle of the night to fight a _worm queen_ like some sort of academic Van Helsing!"

"Ah. I . . . " Jon glanced off to the side, "I believe the original Van Helsing was actually a professor of some sort, so . . . ."

"Whatever!" Martin threw up his hands. He was exhausted, and confused, and he didn't know why he was shouting except that he'd been too nervous to shout while they were running for their lives and now it was all coming out. "You show up with a bunch of gear and start knocking down walls and finding hidden passageways! How did you even know they were there? And what was with that phone call, I mean, why tonight? What do _I_ have to do with it all?"

The rare sight of Jon looking speechless might have been more satisfying if Martin wasn't hoping to get answers from him _._ He looked down at his fidgeting hands, avoiding eye contact, and was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was in a different voice. A dark, measured tone, as if he was reciting something.

" _It is not the patterns that enthrall me, it's what sings behind them,_ " he intoned. " _Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me._ "

"Wh- what?" The strange, poetic words tugged at Martin's stomach, bringing up a deep, disquieting nausea. They made him itch.

". . . Jane Prentiss. She came here sometime before - before she became what she was. She gave a statement, about something like the melody you described. Something that frightened her even as it lured her closer. That got inside her and twisted and changed her until . . . well. You saw her. Twice now."

Martin felt cold. He didn't like what he feared Jon was implying. _Does it sound like it's for you?_ he'd asked _._

"First she heard them sing to her." Jon continued. "Then she resisted. Then she was drawn in. Then she gave herself to them."

"So . . . so you're saying they can do, what, mind control?" Martin asked, unsteadily.

"I don't think it's direct as that. It's more of a slow corruption. Or a call. Or a wearing down of resistance. By the time you realize you're changing, you've already changed. Too far gone to be saved," he said, looking into the middle distance. "That's, ah, how it seemed from Prentiss's statement, anyway."

Martin was quiet. Jon unwrapped some fresh gauze and dabbed it with disinfectant. He gestured Martin towards himself.

"Come here," he said.

He leaned forward reluctantly. After seeing Jon scour his own wounds he braced himself for a similar treatment, but his touch was remarkably light and careful as he dabbed at Martin's face. Even the sting of alcohol wasn't so bad - it made him feel cleaner, less worried about whatever horrid traces those things might have left behind in him.

"Is that going to happen to me?" Martin whispered. "What happened to Jane?"

"No." Jon said firmly. "We won't let them have you. Besides, the worms are all dead now."

"But do we _know_ that? How can we be sure?"

He half expected Jon to insist they couldn't have survived the CO2, ignoring everything about them that didn't make natural sense. Instead, he paused and considered.

"Well. We can keep watch. If there are any left, their only means of ingress are the vent and under the door," he nodded at both. "If it came to that, they'd only be able to get through a few at a time. We could probably take care of them with something heavy. And when the ECDC arrives they'll seal off and fumigate the building, so as much as one can ever be certain things like this have been destroyed, we will be then."

Martin nodded slowly. All right. That was reasonable enough.

"And . . . if you _do_ ever hear them again, hear or feel something strange, you can talk to me. I promise I'll listen. Ah, Tim and Sasha too, you can, you can come to us for help, you know?" He looked down, changing out the square of gauze. "I think that isolation makes this sort of thing worse. From - - from what I've read. In the statements."

He added that last part so hastily Martin couldn't help raising an eyebrow. His guess about Jon having some past experience with Prentiss, or at least something like her looked more likely by the second. But so did the sense that there was something big there, some raw emotion Jon didn't want to touch. Martin decided not to press it.

Jon placed a hand against Martin's jaw, gently angling his face as he needed it. He leaned in with the look of focused concentration Martin had seen on him while reading, brow crinkling, mouth turned into the smallest hint of a frown. Jon's face was very, very close to his, and Martin closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to worry about where to look. He tried to cover his shyness with a laugh.

"You know," he said, "if I didn't know better I'd think you were saying there _might_ be something, I don't know, not-normal about these person-devouring parasites?"

Jon sighed heavily, pulling back. Martin opened his eyes just in time to see Jon roll his.

"Yes. I realize these things are not natural. And I've always believed in the supernatural, even before I came here. The skeptic act, it - it felt safer at first to just deny everything, I suppose. But lately I think it's just done out of habit." He pulled a clean bandage out of the kit, pressing it against Martin's neck. "Still. Perhaps it's a habit I'd be better off discarding.

He tugged the collar of Martin's t-shirt to the side, exposing the flesh over his shoulder which was pocked with tiny holes, and he looked at the opposite wall as Jon tended to them. When the last had been bandaged, he expected him to pass the kit back and let him handle the bites on his arms himself. But without a word Jon pulled out a new square of gauze and gently took Martin's wrist, moving his arm to rest on top of his knee and turning it to show where it was hurt. He touched him carefully, resuming his ministrations.

"Probably is better. Discarding the skeptic act, I mean," Martin said, grappling for something to fill the silence, "I almost didn't want to tell you about Prentiss at first. Was pretty sure you'd say I was losing it. Or, I dunno, lying to get out of work."

Jon winced, and he immediately regretted bringing it up. It was such a petty thing. Not worth discussing over a month later, especially not at a time like this. For a while Jon was silent, focusing on his arm while Martin wondered if he'd just spoiled what might have been a moment of connection. Then abruptly, Jon looked him in the eye.

"I owe you an apology, Martin. Probably several apologies. This job I've taken on, I - I don't think I was prepared for it at all. It certainly wasn't what I'd expected," he said ruefully. "I've been frustrated and - and confused, and afraid, and I've been taking it out on you. Which isn't fair at all."

Jon's eyes flicked away from Martin's face, and he turned to stare nervously at the floor.

"I don't - I don't, ah, dislike you, Martin. I've been lashing out, and you've-" he winced, "well, been a convenient target, I suppose. Which is inexcusable, absolutely inexcusable, and I'm not trying to justify it, but -" he spoke slowly, his voice earnest. "You should know that it's been nothing that you _did._ It's really had nothing to do with _you_ at all. It's entirely me and my own failings, and I'm sorry for that. I just . . . hope that you can forgive me."

"Oh. I mean, ah . . . sure?" Martin said it unthinkingly, as reflex, just reacting to the fact that he was being apologized to. But after a moment, he added, "yeah. Yeah, it's all right. I forgive you," and realized that he meant it.

Jon seemed immensely relieved, he looked at Martin and smiled. Martin felt a soft little twinge in him and smiled back.

"I'm . . . very glad to hear that. Because there's something wrong about this place. I don't just mean - " he gestured around them, indicating their current situation " - Jane, the worms. I mean the whole archive. I'm . . . worried that things may get worse than this." Jon tilted his head, looking at Martin sincerely. "And if they do . . . I think I'm really going to want you in my corner."

Martin felt heat rise to his face in a way he couldn't ignore. And God, what a mess he was. Getting weak-kneed over his boss while they were locked in a supply closet together, it was ridiculous. But something about Jon looking at him like that, in the close, stuffy air. His voice serious but his expression unexpectedly soft and open. It did Martin in. He chuckled awkwardly, trying to clear the tension.

"Oh! Well, sure," he laughed. "I mean, that's my job, right? Assisting the archivist."

A smile spread over Jon's face. Then he glanced back at the vent and sighed. "I think we're going to be waiting here a while. You should get some rest if you can."

At the words _get some rest,_ perhaps just the _concept_ of rest sinking into his mind, Martin felt himself sway. The adrenaline had passed, and while his wounds still hurt the painkillers had taken the sharpest edges off.

"'If I can' being the key bit."

"Yes. Not exactly the most comfortable surroundings, I suppose."

"Every time I close my eyes I feel something _crawling_ on me."

Martin had meant it lightly, even jokingly, a sardonic complaint about the bizarre situation they were in. But when he said it Jon looked at him with sudden concern. Not the quick, searching worry from when he'd asked Martin if there were any worms left, but something less urgent, more quiet and sad. Martin shifted uncomfortably, about to say that he didn't mean it, he knew they were dead and it was fine. But before he could speak, Jon got down from the bucket and sat beside him. He leaned against a shelf, legs out, his body forming a small barrier next to Martin's corner.

"I'll keep an eye out. I can see both the vent and the door from here, if anything comes through rest assured I'll make enough commotion to wake anyone."

Martin laughed once, a quick, short breath. "I bet. Um," he fidgeted. "We could take shifts? That'd be fair."

"Told you. I keep odd hours." Jon waved a hand dismissively. "I've already gotten some sleep tonight, which, unless my guess is wrong, you haven't. Besides, it shouldn't be long before someone arrives. Don't see the point in splitting the time up."

"If you're sure."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Go to sleep, Martin."

There was a familiar annoyed creak to his voice, but it was softened with something friendly, even affectionate. Martin stuck a few drop-cloths behind him, giving him something to lean against. He was slumped against the wall of a storage closet, the sores on his face and arm still ached, and it was far from comfortable. But when his eyes closed and his mind conjured images of squirming things, he felt Jon's presence next to him. Someone was keeping watch over him, someone who'd see if anything got near, and that was enough to make the crawling feeling fade. For the first time in a long while, Martin was able to drift, his skin calm, his mind settling. A moment later, he was asleep.

He didn't dream much, and those he did have were echoes, brief half-images and sounds replayed from their flight through the tunnels. But there was one moment when he dreamed of opening his eyes, half awake. He dreamed himself still in the supply closet, slumped over onto Jon in his sleep. Jon sat and watched the vent with Martin lying in his lap, resting one arm over him. Then the peaceful darkness took Martin back.

Just a dream, of course. When he truly woke he was lying on the floor and Jon was standing, banging on the door and shouting to the emergency workers outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little surprised at how many people thought they'd end up being roommates after the last chapter. Sorry to disappoint, but after that phone call there was a 0% chance of Jon *not* doing something incredibly reckless before sunup that would change the whole situation. 
> 
> Hey, at least they got a sleepover! . . . Of sorts.


	5. Gentle, Cheerful Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some doors are opened. Others are shut.

Jon stood outside the gate, checking the address against what he’d written down. This was it. He was in the right place.

He looked at his phone . . . he was early, but not too early. He’d expected her to be there before him, and as he waited he tried not to run through all of the possible ways this might go wrong. She could have checked his background and realized something was off. The agency could have decided to send a different person. Worst of all, he might have simply remembered the dates incorrectly and come too late to intervene.

His attention was so centered on trying not to think about these things that he didn’t notice the car until it was halfway into the driveway. There was a moment of shock as the driver exited, giving a polite little wave in his direction. Jon had grown used to seeing that face twisted subtly, with features that swam whenever you tried to focus on them. She seemed so _solid_ now, so real, and it was oddly disorienting. He found himself wondering if there was such a thing as a reverse of the uncanny valley effect, the distress of seeing something that no longer looks wrong.

 _She’s a person, you ass,_ Jon thought to himself. _And you’re staring at her. Say something._

“Ms. Richardson?” he asked, as if he was uncertain.

“That’s me,” Helen called as she approached. “And you must be - - forgive me, I’ve done five other viewings today, just need a moment to remember . . .” she glanced down at her clipboard. “Jonathan . . . er, Smith?”

“Go ahead and make a joke,” Jon smiled as best he could. “You won’t be the first.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it," she smiled back, crisp and professional. Her smile was not wider than her face, and it showed an ordinary number of teeth. "Shall we take a look inside, then?”

“Yes, ah,” he nodded. “Let’s do that.”

The house on Saint Albans avenue was big enough for a family of five, and if Jon had actually been looking to move anywhere it would have been astronomically out of his price range. He’d worn his best shoes. Hopefully he appeared more financially stable than he was.

“Is it just you today?” Helen asked casually as they walked across the entryway, her heels echoing against the hardwood.

“Er, yes. Just looking for myself.”

“Just curious,” she replied, though he suspected she was trying to size him up, “I’ve mostly been showing this property to families, or young couples planning to start one. It’s a lot of space for one person.”

“. . . I think I’m going to need a lot of space,” he said distractedly, eyes sweeping the walls of the room as if contemplating its size. He was actually looking for anything out of place, unnatural. Distorted. “I, ah . . . entertain frequently.”

“Right . . . well, in that case, you couldn’t do much better than this layout. The living room flows right into the kitchen, and beyond that is an entry to the outdoor patio . . . .”

Jon nodded and followed her from room to room, doing his best to pretend interest in the hardwood floors and the amount of closet space. He spent a particularly long moment in the second story hallway, silently counting and re-counting the doors, finding their number frustratingly consistent. Before long the two of them had returned to the front of the house, tour finished.

 _Now what, genius?_ he thought.

He’d been given months to prepare for this, and despite running through a thousand scenarios in his mind the only real plan he’d managed to settle on had been “find Helen.” He'd hoped that if Michael already had an interest in her, his presence would be enough to prompt it to appear. Wishful thinking, probably. But the Distortion was by nature unpredictable, and any scheme that had depended on guessing its movements would have fallen apart all the same, leaving him with no plan at all.

Then again, ‘left with no plan at all’ was where he found himself now. He tried to focus on what Helen was saying.

“If you’re interested in putting in an offer,” she continued, “the office is just down the street. You’re more than welcome to take some time to consider, of course, but I wouldn’t advise waiting long. Confidentially, there are a few other buyers who’ve taken an interest, and if you want to act while it’s still on the market it would probably be wisest to put something in today.”

“That’s a lie, isn’t it?” Jon didn’t speak with anger or reproach, only the pleasant surprise of realization. His search for Helen had led him across a few articles on less-honest tactics that home buyers should watch for. “I’ve heard about that. It’s to press someone into making a decision, get rid of time-wasters, right?”

It was hard not to frame a thing like that against what was going to happen to her. Did it mean anything? There were so many people who, in the course of their job, were expected to gently and cheerfully lie to people. Push false claims, press on anxieties, exaggerate things. Day after day, twisting a thousand tiny falsehoods into their interactions with people, until no longer felt like lying at all. Did that feed Es Mentiras all on its own?

Oh. Helen was staring at _him_ now, and her mouth was a hard line. Perhaps saying that out loud had been a bad idea.

“Ah, sorry. Forget I said that, please.” Jon took a deep breath. He’d run out of pretense and wouldn’t have much time before she shooed him out. It was now or never. “Tell me, have you ever noticed anything unusual happening in this place?”

“Unusual?” Helen looked uncertain for a moment. Then realization struck, and she looked like she might be disappointed. “Ah. You mean . . . ghost stories? Hauntings, things like that?”

“Sort of? Not exactly,” Jon said. “Look, I’m from the Magnus Institute. . . .”

“Ah. Yes. I’ve heard of that one,” the disappointment that had been threatening a moment ago now fell thunderously across her face, as she realized she’d been wasting her time.

“Yes, well, ah, I know it has a _reputation_ \- ”

“As much as I’d love to discuss the many _,_ _many_ unlikely haunted house stories I’ve heard in my career, Mr. Smith, I have other viewings today,” her voice was polite, falsely pleasant and sincerely firm as she crossed past him to open the front door. “If you’re interested in making an offer on this property, you have my card, but for now I really have to ask you to - -”

“You’re in danger.” Jon blurted out.

Helen’s hand hesitated just over the doorknob, and she glanced back at him. She looked wary, though Jon suspected he’d only succeeded in making her wary of _him._ He kept talking, speaking quickly, afraid if he paused she’d resume throwing him out.

“Someone is going to come after you. Someone dangerous. There’s a - a being that calls itself Michael, it might be stalking you already. Look, you don’t have to believe me _now_ ,” he held up his hands, “you can think I’m absolutely unhinged _now._ But if a strange man with straw-colored hair who laughs like a headache shows up at a home you’re selling – I - I don’t know. Try to get away from him if you can? And don’t open any doors that shouldn’t be there. He can trap you behind the doors.”

Helen stared at him. Jon lowered his hands and sighed.

“Really,” he said, “you should quit real estate all together. But I doubt you’re going to do that because a total stranger came by and started raving about doors and monsters. Just remember what I said, if he shows up?”

“. . . Right. Will do.” Helen’s voice was tight. She opened the door - a normal door, one that opened only to the house’s exterior - and gestured for him to walk through. “Good afternoon, Mr. Smith.”

Jon wasn’t sure he’d helped at all, and he feared he might have blurted out too much if any eyes happened to be on him. But trying to push it further would probably make things worse, he ought to just leave before she decided to call the police on him. Resignedly, he walked out onto the porch.

“Straw-blond hair,” he added. “In ringlets, and the door will be yellow.”

“Understood,” she smiled insincerely, eager to move him along. “Thank you for the warning.”

Jon didn’t look back to see whether Helen returned to her car after he left, or just shut herself in a house she didn’t own until he was out of sight. He stuck his hands in his pockets and began the long walk back to the bus stop.

* * *

It was almost a month later when he heard her voice again. Not the bright sales tone that she’d had before or the uncanny echo he’d grown used to. It was shaky, unsteady, with an edge of desperation that was audible even muffled through his office door.

“- -sent me down here,” she said, “I _know_ he works here, I _know_ it. His name is - is Jonathan Smith. Or at least he _said_ that it was - -”

“There _is_ a Jon here,” that was Sasha. “Are you sure that it was ‘Smith’ he said? Not ‘Sims?’”

“If you want to sit down for a moment -” Martin’s voice, it sounded concerned. “We can go talk to him. And maybe you ought to sit down either way . . . .”

He stood and opened the door to his office, looking out. Helen was standing there, disheveled, clutching the back of a chair like it was all that was holding her up. Sasha and Martin hovered around her while Tim stood at the back wall, looking as though he was considering whether to physically insert himself into the situation. When she saw Jon, Helen’s eyes widened and she pointed in his direction.

“There. That’s him. It’s you?” Her voice began as confident, almost accusatory, but by the end it curved into uncertainty. As if hoping he would confirm that he’d met her before.

“It’s me,” he agreed, nodding. He glanced at the others. “Thank you, Martin, Sasha. I can speak to Ms. Richardson in my office.”

Helen nodded. She took a deep breath and straightened her blazer, trying to regain some sense of composure as she walked. Jon stepped aside to let her in. The second the door to his office closed she turned to face him, not bothering to sit down.

“How did you know?” she whispered, deep creases forming in her brow. “How did you know it would be there?”

 _Elias is watching,_ Jon thought.

“It’s a long story,” he said carefully. “One of my staff had a run-in with this 'Michael.' I’ve been trying to see what I can learn and, ah, my - - my research led me to think he might come after you. I take it he showed up?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you . . . ” Jon took a deep breath, fearful of the answer that he already knew, “go through the door?”

Helen’s face fell, and that told Jon all he needed. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as she continued.

“I didn’t intend to. When he showed up I remembered what you had said about a man with straw blonde ringlets. I didn’t believe you, of course, can you blame me? But I _did_ remember. And there was something off about him, something unsettling. I told myself I’d let you get inside my head, I was only startled since he matched your description. That plenty of people have blond, curly hair, and I was being irrational. But then he spoke, and his voice,” her breathing slowed, her speech grew calmer and more rhythmic, though the fear didn’t leave her eyes, “it reminded me of having fevers as a child, of trying to fall asleep with my head swimming and- -”

“ _Don’t!_ ” Jon said, a little too loudly.

Helen was startled into silence, the statement that had been spilling out of her cut off.

“Don’t tell me. Please,” he crossed over to his desk and took out a form and a pen, placing them in front of her. “Write it down.”

She seemed confused, but nodded and sat, picking up the pen. Jon supposed that he’d already given her one bizarre, panicked warning that had turned out to be true, perhaps he’d gained some credit with her. She wrote and he stood anxiously nearby, the irregular scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the room.

Elias was watching. His attention was always a possibility, the paranoia of knowing you _might_ be watched no less maddening than constant and certain surveillance. But Helen would have caught his attention, and Jon didn’t doubt that his eyes were on them now.

He wasn’t sure how much Elias Knew. Not everything, certainly. If he’d known _everything_ he’d have made an attempt on Jon’s life by now. While he lived he was both a needed component to the ritual and a threat to it, and Elias couldn’t possibly allow that. It seemed, then, that he still had some secrets. But Jon knew he wasn’t hiding his contempt for the man well, and the steps he’d been taking to stay human had become a silent point of contention between them.

When Elias noted that he’d stopped recording statements, Jon had spent an afternoon reading out a stack of nonsense and conspiracy theory that went straight into the computer. After a few weeks of that, Elias began directing him to specific statements, _real_ statements, marking them as higher priority. Jon lied about recording them, claiming the audio files were corrupted and unusable. When Elias suggested the tape recorder that he’d been using before, Jon said it was broken. Which it was. Most things become broken when you hit them with a hammer.

It was a strange sort of fencing match that neither would acknowledge they were having.

A week ago, Elias had walked into Jon’s office and placed a folder on his desk. He’d told Jon to make a recording with him in the room, so that he could get a better idea of what the problem was. There’d been nothing hostile in his manner, he maintained a smiling, genial, let’s-work-this-out-together tone. But it couldn’t have been more aggressive if he’d walked in with a gun.

No unnatural hunger had pulled Jon towards the statement, that wasn’t there yet. But still, part of him had wanted to give in. Something in the back of his mind whispered that he could do it just once, just to satisfy Elias, get him off his back for a while. That he _needed_ to or this would keep escalating. That it would be a while before the dreams began, before things would get truly bad. That he’d have to give in sooner or later.

He’d slid the folder across the desk, and spoken in a tight, controlled voice.

 _You know,_ he’d said, _I’_ _ve been thinking lately that I may not have been the right choice_ _for this position. If you’re so unsatisfied with my job performance, maybe you should just fire me._

It had felt like a dare. He wasn’t sure what the dare _was_ , since firing him wasn’t possible. Maybe he just hoped Elias would drop the pretense. Admit his reasons for wanting Jon to read statements out loud - to a recorder, a computer, an empty room if necessary - had nothing to do with document preservation. One of them would have to blink first.

It wouldn’t be Elias, though. He’d sighed and told Jon not to be so dramatic, that this was only a technical issue after all, and Jon’s overall work had been adequate. He said that perhaps he’d been micromanaging too much, that he would try to be more hands-off in the future. That he was sure Jon would figure out something on his own.

As Elias turned towards the door, Jon had been just foolish enough to feel victorious. Then he paused in the doorframe, smiling with knowing satisfaction.

 _Don’t worry, Jon,_ he’d said. _I have every confidence that you were the right choice for this. You’ll take to it in time._

Jon had kept silent at that, sure if he said anything he’d say something he’d regret.

 _I_ _f not,_ Elias had added, pulling the door shut, _I’m sure that one of your assistants would be up to the task._

And there it was. The threat that he’d been waiting for.

Jon glanced over Helen’s shoulder. She’d scribbled a maze of overlapping lines at the top of the page - a frustrated attempt to map out the impossible architecture of the Distortion’s hallways. He blinked, feeling ill, and turned away.

When he had the full powers of the Archivist, Jon had pierced the Unknowing and navigated the Lonely. Now he was so human that he couldn’t look directly at Helen’s drawings without his head swimming and his eyes going glassy. How was he going to stop Elias when he couldn’t See him coming? What did he think that he could do for Helen, already claimed by the Spiral? Did he really believe he had a chance of keeping anyone safe when he was so thoroughly defenseless?

 _It worries me,_ said a voice in Jon’s memory, _when you do the whole ‘curse this flesh prison’ thing._

This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? To stay human? To keep himself as free of the Beholding’s power as possible? It was what he _needed_ to do, or everything else would be forfeit. Being human meant being helpless. It meant being toyed with and taken apart by the uncaring world. There was nothing for him to do but accept that, and try to stay alive.

The pen stopped moving. Helen cleared her throat. “I’ve finished."

Jon picked up the small stack of paper from the desk in front of her. He had to read it, if only to find out what was different this time. Maybe there was something in her story that could help her. Maybe he could bring some insight to it.

The beginning was as she’d already described. Michael came to the house on Saint Albans avenue, and she dismissed her own wariness as a sign that she’d let Jon get to her. At least, until the door appeared.

 _For some reason, it was the color that scared me the most,_ she wrote. _That you’d specified a_ yellow _door. As if a blue or brown or white door appearing there would have been any less impossible, as if_ _that one detail_ _being wrong would have meant anything at all. I suppose_ _it was something to grab onto, though, because it_ _gave me the certainty I needed._

 _The man was standing between me and the stairs, which were the only way down to the first floor. Getting_ _there_ _would have meant pushing past him and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I tried, so I turned and walked into the master bedroom. Didn’t say anything, didn’t answer his question, just left. There was a tree that grew close to the window, and it was sturdy enough to climb down. No easy task in heels and nylons, but I managed. The man didn’t try to follow me. For all I know he just stayed in the hallway, perfectly still, where I left him._

_I didn’t bother to cancel my other viewings, just got into my car and drove. I wanted to get home, to a place that felt safe and normal where I could gather my thoughts. But when I got to my apartment, the door, well, it wasn’t mine anymore. I’m on the fourth floor, apartment B. 4A was there. 4C was there. But between them was that dark yellow door with the matte black handle._

_I didn’t know what to do. Obviously I wasn’t going to open it, but there was no other place where the real door,_ my _door could have been. After pacing back and forth for a while and trying to get my hands to stop shaking, I called a friend who lived outside the city and arranged to stay the night with her. But_ _when I reached her house . . . well, it was there too. It was the front door, and the back door_ _. I didn’t dare knock._

 _I’ll spare you the repetitiveness of the next few hours – finding it waiting for me_ _wherever I went_ _, being dragged screaming from a hotel after_ _looking down the hallway and seeing rows of identical yellow doors_ _. I slept in my car, and the next morning I went back to_ _the house on Saint Albans_ _. I wasn’t sure what I was hoping to find, really. I just knew that if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life out of doors I’d have to find some way to resolve this._

 _I kept seeing it in my peripheral vision as I drove. It was on every single building, except one. The house where it had all started._ _You’ve_ _seen_ _the front door there - it’s a very distinctive_ _bright_ _blue, isn’t it?_ _I can’t tell you how friendly that color looked as I approached. In hindsight, I should have realized it could only be a trap._

She had opened what she believed was the front door to the house on Saint Albans avenue and found herself trapped in a maze of endless corridors. From there the statement became depressingly familiar - wandering, fleeing from a distorted figure, finally being found on the street and taken to the hospital.

“Er . . . yes,” Helen looked at him oddly. “That’s pretty much what happened.”

Jon blinked, feeling dazed, and only then realized he’d been reading the statement out loud. That . . . wasn’t a good sign. But probably nothing he could deal with at that moment.

“Have you seen it since then,” he asked, “the door, or the man for that matter?”

“No. I’ve mostly stayed in my apartment for the last few days.”

Helen’s thin fingers fidgeted in her lap, knitting themselves together. The thing that took her and later became her retained that habit, but its hands moved in ways best not considered for long. Was there anything he could even do for her now? He’d tried to warn her and it had changed nothing but details. Even if she escaped his office unscathed, Michael could find her anywhere. He'd come for her eventually, someplace where Jon couldn't intervene.

Dekkar’s description of Bernadette Delcour as having ‘the look of an unfinished meal' came back to him, and he felt something fierce and stubborn rise. There had to be _something._ He knew so much that he hadn’t known the first time, _somewhere_ in his brain there had to be something useful. Maybe if she wasn’t afraid . . . people who survive an encounter with acceptance and calm tend to do better. But fear isn’t something you can start and stop at will.

“I’m glad you managed to escape,” he tried.

“Yes. So am I, I suppose. But, look, you know about this sort of thing. This is what you study here, isn’t it?” She looked at him, “what do I do _now?_ ”

It hurt to see that look on her face – tired, strained and pleading. It was the look she’d worn the first time he’d met her, when she came in desperate for someone to believe her. Hoping someone else would hear her story, know what she had been through. She couldn’t have made a worse choice in where to tell it.

“Move on with your life,” he said after a moment, “and maybe consider a change of career.”

“That’s all?”

“You could switch to an open-plan apartment?”

She laughed at that, sharp and with release. “More or less have one already. I took all the doors off by the hinges as soon as I got home.”

“I think I’d have done the same.” He smiled weakly. “You’ve had a brush with something unnatural, and you’re still here. That’s not something a lot of people can claim. The best advice I can give you is to try and get back to normal. And maybe stay with a friend . . . being alone, obsessing over it, you’ll end up-” he was _not_ going to say spiraling, “- end up tormenting yourself. Better to let it fade, until it’s just another bad memory.”

She was quiet for a while, then nodded slowly. “It _was_ real, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” he said. “All of it was real.”

She took in a slow breath and stood, straightening her clothes, gaining back a sliver of the closed-off, professional demeanor he had seen in her a month prior.

“Well. Then I’ll - -” she sighed. “Suppose I’ll take your advice. Do my best to move on - -”

A tug of panic hit Jon as she turned to leave, and his hand shot out to grab her.

She jumped, turning back to him with surprise. Of course she was surprised. He was grabbing her arm.

“Sorry,” he said. He looked at his own hand and frowned. He should let her go. He didn’t let her go. “Sorry, I, ah . . . .”

Why was he grabbing her arm? He – he shouldn’t be doing that. It was entirely inappropriate. But there _was_ a reason, something important. Something he remembered happening. Or didn’t remember happening. Or didn’t remember not happening? Helen’s confusion was turning to alarm, and he knew, he really knew he should let go. But why did he feel certain that if he let her go she'd slip through his fingers and dissolve?

He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, hoping it might have an answer. His eyes settled on one word, and it fell into place.

“Ms. Richardson,” he said, voice low, eyes on the opposite wall. “What color was the door in your statement?”

Helen followed his gaze to the office door and gasped, as if only now seeing what she’d been reaching for. She took a step backwards.

“No. . . oh, God, please . . . .”

His office had one door. It had always had one door. The wall they were facing now had two, both painted the same dark yellow.

“Don’t open it,” he said.

“Of _course_ not!” Helen snapped. “But . . . .”

“We can work this out.” Jon forced a confidence he didn’t have into his voice. He tried to remember what color his door normally was and came up blank. “These things, they play tricks on your mind, fool your senses. But it’s possible to see through them.”

“How?”

The doubt in Helen’s voice was painful. Lord, he wished he could see properly again. Just for one moment. But, no, Basira had done it without Seeing. She put her mind back together one brick at a time, with brute force, until she was able to walk out of the Unknowing. If it was possible there, it was possible here. They just needed something to start with.

He loosened his grip on Helen’s arm, reluctantly. It was a relief when she slid her hand up to take his, gripping it with a furious strength – he wanted to keep a hold of her. If he held onto her, she couldn’t slip through any more cracks. No, cracks was someone else, wasn’t it? The one who cleaned houses. Houses and doors and cracks and – focus. _Focus._

“How many doors do you see right now?” He asked. “Let’s start with that.”

“One,” she answered. The quaver that had faded from her voice while they spoke was returning, as she stared at the dark yellow wood. “Just one. The . . . the same one.”

One door? That was wrong. There were two doors to his office. There had always been two doors.

“I see two. But both of them look the same.” 

Helen swallowed. “How many does your office usually have?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I think - twenty? No, that’s . . .” he laughed nervously. “That’s way too many, isn’t it? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does sound like a lot,” Helen agreed.

They stood in helpless silence for a while, looking from one wall to the other. Each one had a door. Some had more than one. Some had less than one. All of them had one.

“Don’t suppose you keep a week’s worth of water and camping supplies in here,” she said weakly. “Just in case?”

“Afraid not.”

“Worth trying.” Helen's eyes traced the walls. “Do you think he’s going to come through one of them?”

“I don’t think so. He might, but -” Jon frowned, trying to remember something. “But he wants _us_ to open his door. It . . . choices matter.”

Choices matter, except when they don’t. Infinite tiny decisions and paths, countless choices with uncountable consequences. Wandering through life, stomping on butterflies.

“ _Focus,_ ” he muttered to himself. “Helen – ah, Ms. Ms Richardson –”

“Oh, Helen is fine. If we’re going to die together we may as well be on a first name basis.”

“Helen, then. When you came into my office, what did you see? What was the first thing you noticed?

“Wh- I don’t know. Your desk?”

“Picture it. What angle were you seeing it from?”

“You mean . . . _oh,_ ” realization hit her, and she turned to face the eastern wall. “The front! I was seeing it from the front . . . so the door I came through must have been on that wall.”

“Right. We can ignore all the others,” Jon turned to face the wall with her. “It’s down to the three on this wall.”

“Four.” Helen corrected him.

“Right, two,” he agreed.

He closed his eyes, trying to picture the door to his office, the _real_ one. It was light stained wood, unpainted, with a bright brass handle. That was right, it _felt_ right.

When he opened his eyes, everything was clear. There was one door on the wall he was facing. Light stained wood, unpainted, the door that led back to the world. Keeping hold of Helen, he stepped forward to open it.

His hand closed around the matte black handle and turned.

Everything stopped making sense after that.

* * *

The door opened again in document storage and spit Jon out. He tumbled onto the floor, stumbling on his hands and knees. He was alone. The first coherent thought he had was that Helen was gone again. She'd been pulled into the corridors and he'd tried to keep hold of her hand, but it was impossible to hold onto anything in there.

A fever-dream laugh echoed from behind him. The Distortion hovered nearby, watching with an expression of amusement.

“That was a very stupid thing to do,” it observed.

“Give her back,” Jon tried to sound aggressive, commanding, but it wasn’t in him and his words came out like a whimper. “Y-you. . . you don’t need her. You’ll take other victims . . . you don’t need this one.”

“Oh?” It laughed, and his teeth ached. “Do you have anyone to recommend?”

“N-no, I meant. . . .” Jon swallowed. “Just give her back.”

“. . . No.”

“Hnn.” Jon found he was laughing, hollowly and without amusement. “You’ll regret that.”

“Are you threatening me?” It sounded entertained at the idea.

“No,” he replied. “It’s just a fact. Keeping her won’t turn out well for you.”

Michael said nothing. Jon stared at the floor, trying to get his bearings. Twisted afterimages were still swarming in his brain, and he felt exhausted. Without looking, he sensed the Distortion moving closer – the dizzy-sick feeling growing stronger with its presence. He grimaced as it touched one sharp finger to his head.

“Do you know that you have spiders in your hair?” It asked.

Jon felt his stomach drop.

“Wh-what?”

A door shut behind him, and he was alone.


	6. Catching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation is had.

Jon stood before the bathroom mirror, combing his fingers through his hair, checking and rechecking. Looking for - - he didn't know what. Spiders, silk . . . cobweb-sealed cracks? There was nothing. Of course there would be nothing.

Only after he gave up hope of finding anything visible did he properly notice the inch-long cut on his scalp. He dabbed at the blood with a paper towel and held pressure against it for a bit, though that didn't do very much - a moment after letting go he saw a small trail of red trickle down his brow again. Ah well. It would stop bleeding on its own eventually.

He ran the sink, bringing palmful after palmful of water to his mouth. He couldn't judge how long he'd been wandering in that nightmare of corridors – trying to think about it was messy, anything from a few minutes to a few years felt equally likely. But the clock on the wall told him he'd been missing for a little more than four hours.

Helen had been with him for a while, though his memories of trying to navigate that maze with her were blurred. At one point, he was sure that her hand around his had become sharp and heavy as a bag of stones, that her fingers were cutting his to ribbons. He suspected that might have been when he'd let go. Both his hands were free of lacerations, of course. More lies.

His reflection in the mirror was a mess – wild-eyed, shaking, and disheveled. He stared at it as his mind ran over the Distortion's words again and again.

_Do you know that you have spiders in your hair?_

What did it mean? . . . No, stupid question. Jon knew what it meant, what it had to mean, at least in the broader sense. But what were the specifics? What hold did the Web have on him? More importantly, what could he _do_ about it?

He was still contemplating when the door opened and a startled cry came from behind him.

" _Jon?!_ "

Turning, he saw a familiar figure standing in the doorway.

"Martin. Hello."

The sound Martin made was somewhere between a gasp and a squeak. He took half a step forward, then hesitated - gripping the doorframe as if to stop himself from rushing over.

"Where have - - oh God, you're hurt . . . ,"

"Ah. Yes." Jon hovered a hand over his scalp and tried to smile reassuringly. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Let me see –" the issue of injury apparently was enough to push Martin forward. He placed a careful hand on Jon's head, moving his hair to get a better look. "What happened?"

"Mmm. Cut my head. On a door." Well, it was a kind of truth, wasn't it?

The evasion was almost a reflex. Still, he couldn't help but feel a little touched at Martin's distress. So much fuss over something so relatively small – not even as bad as the mark Michael had left on him the first time. It tugged at Jon's heartstrings.

Martin sucked air through his teeth, a few of the hole-shaped scars on his cheek flattening as he frowned. "Christ. Well it's probably not _dire,_ but we should still get you to a hospital. I can call a cab – "

"Really, it's not –"

"And we'll need to put pressure on it in the meantime, hang on--" he grabbed a few paper towels and began folding them in half.

"Tried that already," Jon said. "It didn't work."

Martin fixed him with a look that nearly sent his head swimming again. So familiar, that _I-cannot-believe-the-nonsense-I-just-heard_ look, that _you-are-going-to-be-the-death-of-me_ look. Jon would pluck and preserve that expression if he could, it was just so beautifully Martin.

"You need to _keep_ pressure on it, don't you?" he sighed, pressing the folded towels against Jon's head. "Here, hold this there . . . ."

Something felt off, though, and he couldn't put his finger on what. Martin's tone was familiar – superficially calm, but with an undercurrent of bit-back frustration. There was an intensity to his concern that seemed excessive. Not nervous-fussy excessive, either, but something deeper, more strained. And something else was different about him, what _was_ it?

"Really, I'm fine," Jon muttered, holding the towels in place, "just got clumsy. After I spoke to Helen I stepped out for a few hours, and - -"

The look on Martin's face made him trail off. He realized, then, what he'd been unable to put his finger on – Martin's clothes were different than they'd been before.

"Or . . . ." Jon furrowed his brow. "More than a few hours?"

The concern in Martin's face deepened as he seemed to realize he was serious. "Jon," he breathed. "You've been missing for two and a half weeks."

Ah. Well. That did explain a few things.

". . . Right," he said. As if he'd vanished for a fortnight and it had just slipped his mind.

There were sounds of shuffling up by the offices, and a moment later he heard Sasha's voice.

"Everything all right down there?" She asked.

"We keep hearing distressed Martin sounds from the stairs," Tim added.

"It's Jon!" Martin shouted, "he's – well, he's back, I guess!? I think he hit his head or something . . . ."

Any protest Jon might have attempted was covered by the commotion of footsteps from the stairs. Martin put a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the bathroom.

"Here, come on, you should sit down . . . ."

"All right, all right." Jon resigned himself as he was guided into a chair. Tim and Sasha appeared moments later, surrounding him with startled, worried looks. It was a bit overwhelming.

"You look like hell," Tim observed. "Where have you been?"

"He doesn't remember." Martin supplied, anxiously, "that's-- I mean, that's a bad sign, isn't it? With a head injury?"

"Could be. Memory gaps, disorientation," Sasha frowned. "How's your vision, Jon? Can you follow my finger with your eyes?"

"I'm not – my vision is fine –" irritation edged into his voice, but he tracked her hand as she waved it back and forth, if only to prove he had his senses.

"Do you remember where you are? What the date is?" Martin asked.

"I'm at the Magnus Institute, where we work," he sighed. "The date is . . . I don't know, two and a half weeks after the second of October? So, the nineteenth or twentieth, probably? Is that good enough?"

"That's the day you went missing, the second," Sasha at least seemed calm. "Is it only the time between then and now that you can't remember?"

"I - It's not that I can't remember. I just . . . ."

Jon trailed off, looking from one face to the other. _Trust them,_ he thought.

"All right. You all want to know where I've been?" He reached into his pocket, found the papers he'd been clutching when he spilled out of the Distortion's hallways, and held them out. "I've been here."

Sasha took the pages, pulling them from his hands with admirably restrained curiosity. Tim and Martin crowded closer to her, nudging around to see better. It was a profoundly endearing sight, really. The three of them standing next to each other, heads peering over each others' shoulders as they skimmed the statement.

Their happiness was so precious. Their safety so illusory, their lives so fragile. The teeth of this world were hungry for them. So many monsters waiting to tear them apart.

"So, just to clarify," Sasha began, looking up from the statement. "Are you saying that for the last eighteen days you've been –"

"In the hallways," Jon supplied. "The ones where Helen was trapped. The door appeared again after she gave her statement. It caught both of us, and I . . . I lost sight of her in there."

"But . . . two weeks," Tim's brow furrowed. "I mean, dehydration'd get you after what – three, four days?"

"Doesn't matter," Jon shook his head. "Those things don't _matter_ in places like that. You – you die when it lets you die. _If_ it lets you die. Besides . . . I don't know. Maybe it's been two weeks. I mean, it has, obviously, but I have no idea how long I was wandering on my end. I certainly don't feel like I've gone that long without food or sleep."

There was an uncertain silence, which Martin was the first to break. "Jon," he spoke in that careful, gentle, this-is-an-intervention tone. "It's not that we don't believe you. . . ."

Jon sighed heavily. "I can't imagine you'd need to start a sentence that way if you _did_ believe me."

"—But you _do_ have a head injury, and you're the one who's always saying--"

"I didn't _hit_ my head! It's entirely superficial–"

"It was Michael, wasn't it?" Sasha interrupted. The others turned to her, falling silent. She held up Helen Richardson's statement. "Helen talked about a monster that looks like a man with blonde hair. That's what cut you, isn't it? Those hands that it has."

Jon nodded. Sasha tapped herself on her shoulder, glancing at the others.

"I ran into it about six months back, just before the new fire system was put in," she explained. "That's how I got my own little injury."

Tim balked. "The thing from that story attacked you?"

"Not attacked, exactly. It was getting one of those silver worms out of me, just was messy about it. But it _did_ show me how to kill them."

"Why didn't you tell us? Either of you?" Tim looked sharply at her, then at Jon.

"I didn't want to cause any panic," Sasha folded her hands behind her back. "Honestly, this is sort of the reaction I was hoping to avoid."

"Excuse me. I'm not panicked, I'm pissed off," Tim said. "There's a distinct difference."

"Wait, wait –" Martin interjected. "Why would it help you with the worms? The thing in that story didn't exactly sound friendly."

"Haven't figured that out yet, honestly." Sasha looked apologetically at Tim, who was still frowning. "It was acting civil when I met it, certainly didn't have any weird doors around. Just said that it could help me save Jon. Which, given what happened to the two of you, seems to have been true."

"Up until it kidnapped him, apparently," said Martin.

"Everything about it is lies," Jon muttered. "From the things it says to the form it takes, to the twists and turns inside it, there's nothing about it you can trust."

Jon watched the three of them exchange looks. He couldn't tell if they were disturbed by the implications of what he was saying, or disturbed that he was spouting nonsense. Sasha sat down on the edge of a table, legs crossed, putting her face at his level.

"Places," she said.

". . . Pardon?"

"When you were talking about those corridors, you said ‘places like that,' not ‘that place.' Is there more than one?"

It was a nice catch. Jon couldn't help wondering what Sasha would have been like as Archivist. Maybe she'd have been cunning enough to catch onto Elias's plan in time . . . or maybe she'd have just gotten herself killed. Again.

"There are plenty of statements about buildings without exits, impossible caverns, endless graveyards, etcetera. Locations warped or made wrong, you know the sort of thing I mean."

"Not really." She looked at him pointedly. "I don't mean any offense, Jon, but lately it seems like you've just been giving us a lot of junk to follow up on."

"I know, I know." Jon sighed. "But _trust_ me when I say it's for good reason. People who get close to these things, to the _real_ monsters, they get hurt. Look what just happened to me, look at what happened to Martin. And we're the lucky ones. We've gotten away with just scars. But Helen . . ." he took a deep breath ". . . I didn't see what happened after we were separated. But I don't think she was lucky."

"He has a point." Tim glanced sidelong at Sasha, his voice low. "How many of those statements you go through on your lunch hour end well for the poor sod giving them?"

She sighed. "Tim . . . ."

"And we've got a _literal_ survivor bias," he continued, something hard in his voice. "Maybe we should all think _really hard_ about the people who didn't get to give a statement, because they didn't get away."

Sasha frowned, biting her lip. Then she lowered her head contritely. "Of course. You're absolutely right, and I don't disagree with you."

There was a long silence before Tim relented and broke it.

". . . ‘But'? I know there's a ‘but' coming." he sighed.

"Well. Certainly I think we should regard what we're dealing with as dangerous. I'm not objecting to that," she said. "But all – or at least most of us – have seen real, supernatural phenomena. Are we really going to just keep our heads down and try to pretend it doesn't exist? Why are any of us even _here_ if not to investigate the paranormal?"

"We're here because we _can't leave._ " Jon snapped, a heat in his voice that he hadn't expected.

Sasha started at that, they all did. Jon looked at the three of them . . . so many monsters who'd tear them apart. And one of them was in this building.

 _Hell with it,_ he thought. _Watch all you want._

"Have you ever tried to quit, Sasha?" he asked.

She considered before answering. "Not really _tried._ I thought about it a few months ago, after . . . well, nothing personal, but . . . ."

"It's fine." Jon waved a hand, he was long past the point of taking offense over this. The unfortunate truth was that he was all _too_ suited for the Archivist's true purpose. "I imagine it felt very insulting to see someone with less than half your experience be given this position over you."

"Okay, see, now even _Jon's_ saying it." Tim said. "And you know that had to hurt, with his ego."

"Yes, thank you, Tim." Jon muttered.

"I don't know if I'd say ‘insulting.'" Sasha's voice was carefully diplomatic. Considerate of her. "But I did wonder a bit."

"To be honest, you dodged a bullet. But that isn't really the point. You said you'd considered resigning, why didn't you?"

"Dunno, really," she said. "Thought about it for a while. But then there was Michael, and Jane and everything, so I suppose I got curious. Couldn't really leave things after that."

"That's not why. Or, maybe it was, but it doesn't matter. You'd have found some reason to stay regardless, because you _can't_ quit. None of us can."

"What do you mean?" Martin frowned.

"Exactly what I said." Jon gestured to him. "Try it. I'm not Elias, but as Tim frequently points out I _am_ your boss. Tell me that you quit, right now."

"Um. But, uh, not like . . . for real, right?"

"Yes for real. Absolutely for real," he leveled a hard look at Martin. "I'm ready to accept your resignation right this moment. Just say the word."

"I – ah . . . " Martin shifted nervously and shrugged. "I don't really want to, though? I sort of . . . kind of need this job."

"Jon, I -" Tim stepped forward and frowned, hesitating. Conflict passed across his face, followed by cold dread. When he spoke again his voice came out very soft. "I . . . I can't," he stared fearfully at Jon. "I actually can't – can't say it." Sasha walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He looked uncomfortably like he was waiting for a breeze to come and scatter him.

"And I can't fire you." Jon said, softly. "I would if I could. I'd get every one of you out of this place if I could. But I can't."

Martin's brow furrowed. "Even if that's true, what does it really mean? I mean, it's not like any of us were planning to quit anyway, right?"

"Martin," Jon frowned. "Aren't you the least bit disturbed by the knowledge that you are _literally_ trapped in your job?"

"Not all that different from a lot of jobs, right?" He gave a weak half-smile. "Least there's long term security."

"I very much _hope_ that's a joke."

He looked at the others. Tim was still unsettled, his body language closed off. Next to him, Sasha looked back at Jon and shrugged mildly. It seemed like an agreement with Martin.

Of course. Of course they didn't want to leave. Things weren't bad enough yet. Sasha was too curious to quit even if she could. And Martin was too attached. How many years had spent here, his world shrunk down to the two lonely spheres of his mother and the Institute? Tim was the only one who really seemed to understand the weight of this revelation. And given how badly he'd deteriorated before, Jon wasn't sure if he was really glad of that.

He couldn't tell how much they believed him, _if_ they believed him. It was still a leap from Prentiss and her worms to a world in thrall to collective terror, a coming apocalypse and memories sent through time. They'd seen monsters. They'd heard ghost stories. They thought they knew how bad it could get.

"This isn't – Martin, this isn't a question of squandered career opportunities. This place is _keeping_ us. Holding us here for its own malevolent purposes. And Elias, he's – he's a part of it."

"Elias? Seriously?" Tim blinked, startled out of his contemplation. He didn't sound skeptical so much as surprised. "The human embodiment of an Excel spreadsheet?"

Jon nodded. "Do you think he's the first monster in history to hide behind banal mediocrity?"

"Hmmn."

"Elias is more dangerous than he seems," he continued. "And frankly, it's highly likely he's watching us right now. Eavesdropping on this entire conversation."

"I'm not sure what you mean. Has he got some sort of spy room in his office hooked up to the security cameras? Microphones in the lamps, that sort of thing?" Sasha asked.

Jon looked at her intently. "If I said that it wasn't cameras or microphones . . . if I told you that he had supernatural powers and was using them to monitor us both in and out of the Institute, would you believe me? Or would we start circling back to talk of head injuries?"

" _I_ would like to circle back to that, actually." Martin said. "We really ought to deal with that before anything else."

"It's _fine,_ I think the bleeding's nearly stopped."

"Jon, if it were any deeper I could read your _thoughts_ through it."

"I'm inclined to agree with Martin here." Sasha interjected. "Regardless of anything else, you've got a gash in your head that I can tell has bled through that clump of paper towels you're holding. I don't think anyone wants you to end up passed out on the floor."

Jon bit back a sigh of frustration. It wasn't their fault. They needed time.

He'd read somewhere that about forty-six percent of people in the UK believed in guardian angels. But he doubted many of them would agree to leap from the edge of a building, trusting that something winged and benevolent would catch them before they hit the ground.

The moment the truth was out, Elias would know, and they'd all have targets on their backs. Even if he could prove himself to them, they had to fully trust the _weight_ of what he said. He could only tell them everything when they were ready to do what was necessary.

". . . Fine. I'll get myself to a doctor."

He braced himself against a desk as he stood, wobbly, legs still shaky after his time in the corridors. Quickly, a familiar hand was pressed against his back to steady him.

"Careful, okay? Here, let me . . . ." Martin said, coming up beside him.

Jon smiled, trying to push a little irritation into his voice. "I don't need an escort."

"Just let me reassure myself that you're not going to disappear for another week the second you leave this room, all right?"

He nodded, eyes down, giving in to the gentle but stubborn pressure in Martin's voice. It was a constant wonder to him, that after all that had happened at the end of the world and all that hadn't happened here at the beginning, Martin still hurried to take care of him. He wished that he understood it.

". . . Or fall and crack your head on the sidewalk." Another hand landed on his opposite shoulder, making him jump. Tim sighed heavily from beside him. "Seriously, you look like you're halfway to collapsed. Did you take your car today, Sash?"

"Yes, lucky enough," Sasha began fishing through her bag for keys. "The beetle's not very big, but I'm sure we can all squeeze in."

"I can give directions."

Jon looked from one to the other as the three of them guided him up the stairs, talking back and forth about practicalities.

"Are . . . what, are you _all_ coming now?" he asked.

"Sure," it was subdued, but Tim was making an effort to smile. "Martin's there for when you faint, but who's gonna catch him when _he_ does?"

Martin rolled his eyes. "Do you think I've never been in a hospital before?"

"You just said there's something sinister surrounding this place." Sasha added. "Seems like reason enough to stay together for a bit. What if Michael appears again?"

"Oh. R-right." Jon felt lightheaded in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss. "All right, then."

He said nothing as he was shepherded out the door and tucked into the back of Sasha's volkswagon. There was nothing _to_ say, really. Tim took shotgun and started pulling an address up on his phone, while Martin squeezed into the back with Jon. The practicalities of finding a nearby urgent care center took over from there, and Jon was able to turn his head towards the window and close his eyes. He swallowed a few times and breathed deeply until he was able to compose himself.

Elias had seen him break down today, had seen him panic and seen him bleed. He wasn't going to see him cry as well.


	7. An Invasion of Privacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A challenging work environment proves to be too stressful for some.

Jon missed the tape recorders. He wanted something to talk into, a way to externalize his thoughts.

Before the institute he'd write things down – not notes, really, just lists and scribbles he'd use to map his thinking, then discard. Couldn't do that anymore, though. Not without Elias seeing him plan. At the moment, he had a notebook and pen in front of him, but he wasn't writing. He was drawing the same simple pictogram, over and over. A horizontal oval, a smaller circle inside it, and a black dot in the center – which was immediately scratched out until it was no longer recognizable.

The idea had come from Gertrude. Her crates of eyeless dolls, magazines with the eyes cut from every face, they had felt like wards. He wasn't sure how effective they were against Elias, but doing something with his hands helped him think. He'd been at it for a few hours and had managed to fill most of a notebook with crossed-out eyes.

Melanie was being difficult. It was his own fault, really. He'd made the mistake of trying to discourage her from following the incident with Sara Baldwin, and only led her to feel dismissed and disbelieved.

She'd stormed out and he'd run after her, catching up outside the Institute and all but pleading with her. He confessed his fears and repeated what he'd told the others about the paranormal being dangerous. She wasn't pleased, still indignant that he'd take it on himself to decide what was best for her. But she did soften a bit. Made it clear she had every intention of continuing her investigations, but agreed to keep working with him. That was something.

It wouldn't save her, though. Not if she was determined to keep throwing herself at sites of blood and violence.

There was a knock at the door, and Jon flipped the notebook shut.

"Come in."

His door – unpainted wood, bright brass handle – opened a crack and Martin's head poked through the gap. He was still hesitating, taking stock of how busy he was before entering. Jon smiled and he took it as the invitation it was, shouldering his way in and closing the door behind him.

"Brought you some tea," he said, setting down the red and green mug Tim had bought ages ago. "Thought you might be needing a break."

"Not sure if I've earned one. But thank you."

". . . Been quiet today, huh?" Martin's tone was aimless, talking largely as an excuse to linger. "No weird surprises?"

"Not today, no. Would you like to count the doors?"

"Um. Wouldn't take long, would it? Just the one."

Jon smiled, closed his eyes and took a sip of tea. He used to take it black. He'd just defaulted to it naturally, always, until one afternoon when Martin brought him a cup made the way he took his – with too much sugar and just a little milk. Jon had taken a sip of it and realized that he _liked_ he tea sweet. That he'd denied himself that little pleasure for years, for no real reason but habit.

That was before, of course. The Martin who brought him that tea was the one in his memories, not the one standing in front of him. This Martin thought that Jon had always taken his tea with sugar.

"No sign of Michael, then?"

"Still nothing. Maybe it's gotten bored, found someone else to harass."

"Doesn't it bother you? Knowing he's out there, trapping people in those hallways?"

"I don't know." Jon set the mug down, looking at his hands. "Obviously, yes, it bothers me. But I suppose I'm not sure what I could do about it."

"D'you think – maybe this is too easy, but – d'you think you could just smash it with an axe? The door, if it appeared? I know it's supernatural and all, but it's still wood, right?"

"I think we can be quite sure it _isn't_ wood, actually."

"Still thought. Might be worth keeping a fire axe around? Could at least chop through a wall if you got trapped like before."

"Chopping a hole through evil architecture – strangely practical, blunt, and a little bit violent." Jon observed. He couldn't help thinking that Adelard Dekkar would be proud. "If anyone could do it, it would be you."

"Oh –"

"But no one can," he finished. "It's impossible and it would be foolish to try."

"All right, all right. I get it." Martin rolled his eyes. "Suppose I'll let you get back to it, then . . . ."

Jon stood, the scrape of his chair against the floor loud enough to make Martin turn. He hesitated, standing awkwardly by his desk.

"Ah. Hey. H-How are you holding up?" he asked.

Martin blinked. "What?"

"It's been a difficult few months," he continued, hesitant. "There's everything with Prentiss, and even if you didn't encounter Michael yourself, everything I said . . . it's a lot to take in?"

"Oh . . . well, um. Not much to say about Prentiss, I guess. You know I've been settled back home for a while. Still go a little spray-crazy whenever I see an ant, but, um. I know she's dead, so," he shrugged. "Thanks, by the way. For the, um, jar."

"I know it was a bit weird. I just thought it might, um . . . closure and all?" He tapped the edge of his desk, looking down. "Someone did something similar for me once, and, ah, it helped."

"Yeah. I mean. It is sort of weird, but it's nice." Martin rubbed at the back of his neck. "Also uh – y'know. Appreciate all the phone calls. I'm sure you're sick to death of them."

It had taken a little encouragement, but Martin had been phoning him at night for a few months. First hesitantly and infrequently, then with something approaching regularity. He'd call when he wasn't able to sleep, or wakened by vivid nightmares, and in need of another voice to settle him. No singing, thankfully. It seemed that danger was in the past.

Mostly when he mentioned nightmares, they were about the worms. But Jon suspected there were other things behind some of those calls. He remembered one occasion when Martin didn't say why he'd phoned, barely said anything at all. Just rang Jon up and asked him to please, talk to him about something, anything. He sounded like he'd been crying, and it had taken all of Jon's willpower to not ask why. He'd fumbled around until he found a book on naval history that had been left beside his bed, opened it and began reading out loud. It was all that he could think to do.

It wasn't usually so fraught as that, though. Usually Martin just needed to get his mind off things, long enough to calm down and rest. They'd reached a point where it was a pattern, a quiet little ritual of their own. A moment at the beginning talking through it, then a shift to something easy – books they'd read, movies they liked, silly things that had happened at work.

Sometimes when Martin didn't feel safe in his flat, Jon offered to come over and look over it with him. He always declined, and Jon promised himself that he wouldn't push the issue. Not unless he believed Martin was in real danger, which fortunately never seemed to be the case.

"I've actually come to enjoy our little late night chats," he said. "I'm learning a lot about independent film."

"I _know_ I'm waking you up a lot."

"Sometimes. I still keep odd hours, though. Really there's nothing you could do to my sleep schedule that hasn't already been done." He paused, glancing back at Martin. "Ah . . . what about the other thing? What I said about Elias? We haven't . . . well, we never really talked about it?"

"It's . . . augh, I don't know." Martin shifted from one foot to the other. "Okay, would you explain something to me?"

"Of course."

"So you said that Elias is spying on us, with some supernatural clairvoyance. And he was probably doing it when you _told_ us that, meaning he knows the secret's out, right?"

"Almost definitely. I can't be sure when he's watching and when he isn't, but I would be very surprised if he doesn't know."

"Then why hasn't he _done_ anything?"

"Why would he?" Jon shrugged. "What could he gain from addressing it? Look at it this way – if you all think I've lost it, then he has every reason to keep you thinking that. Even if you believe me, if there's room for doubt at all he's still better off acting normal. He has no reason to discard the facade until it stops being useful."

"I suppose . . ."

"Look, its – it's all right if you don't believe me. I know it's a hell of a claim to make, and I don't have any proof. But don't trust him. Even if you can't trust me, don't trust Elias either. He doesn't have our best interests at heart."

"I didn't say I didn't trust you . . . ."

Jon blinked, startled. "Then you _do_ trust me?"

"Wh – That's not what –" Martin shook his head. "I mean . . . yes? I guess? I don't think you're _lying_ about this. It's just a lot, I guess."

"Have you tried quitting yet? That's probably the closest thing to proof I can offer."

"Nah." Martin shrugged. "Don't see the point, really. Either I try and I can't, so no reason to bother, or I _can_ and I'd be leaving you all to deal with the monsters, so . . . ."

He shrugged again. So. So he wouldn't leave even if he could. Jon shook his head and sighed, smiling.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here. That is – obviously I'm not glad you're _trapped_ here, I don't, ah, I don't want that. But just . . . in general."

A surprised huff came out of Martin. He looked down and smiled, leaning towards the praise like a plant to sunlight. "Ah, y'know. Even without supernatural compulsion, I'd probably be stuck here anyway. Don't think my job prospects are that impressive."

"That's not true," Jon frowned. "You've been here, what, over ten years? That shows reliability. Then there's experience, familiarity with the catalog systems . . . you'd have an impressive resume even without any—"

 _Shit._ He cut himself off as he realized what he'd nearly referred to. Unfortunately Martin noticed the abrupt stop, furrowing his brow.

"Without any what?"

"Hmm? Nothing." Jon looked hard at the wall, trying not to betray the tension he'd created in himself. "Was thinking of something else for a moment."

Stupid, stupid. He wasn't supposed to know about the fake degree. Martin hadn't told him about it, or he had but not _this_ Martin, not _this_ time, couldn't he keep the two straight in his mind? He tried to think of a direction to turn the subject towards. Martin was giving him a searching look and he knew damn well he needed to stop looking so _caught,_ he'd said almost nothing, and if he could just act casual there would be no reason at all to assume –

"Oh . . . _oh._ " Slow realization built on Martin's face. "Shit."

"It doesn't matter," Jon blurted out. "Forget I said anything, please."

". . . Did Tim tell you?"

"No. It's a long story and – and it doesn't matter anyway, does it?" He shrugged, a sad smile on his face. "None of our resumes mean anything here. You can't lose this job however much you might want to, and Elias already knows, so . . . ."

"Wait, what? Elias too?"

"He's known from the beginning. I suspect he's enjoyed having something to hold over you."

A conflicted look passed over Martin, and Jon saw him rubbing his thumb and forefinger together.

"God, that . . . that actually makes a lot of sense." He let out a frustrated sigh. "I used to think maybe, with some of the things he'd say . . . but I thought I was just being paranoid."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said."

"No, no," Martin exhaled, tension still fixing his features. "I'd rather know. Thanks for telling me, I guess. Even if it was, you know, an accident."

The thumb and forefinger again, moving back and forth at his side. Jon had noticed him doing that in the time they'd spent in Daisy's cabin. It was a habit that would come up sometimes when they talked about Peter, or Elias. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was . . . tension, rumination? More that anything else, Jon had come to liken it to the repetitive movement of a tiger pacing a cage.

". . . Are you all right?"

"Yes! No!" Martin dragged a hand over his face. "God, I don't know! It's such a stupid thing to get worked up over. I mean, if anything it's good news, right? One less thing to worry about . . . ."

"The revelation that a man you've known for the majority of your adult life has been deliberately letting you sweat over a harmless lie for a decade?" Jon shook his head. "No, I wouldn't say that qualifies as good news."

"Right!? It's messed up, isn't it?" He threw his arms out to the sides. "I just . . . now I'm thinking about these comments he'd make? Never anything where I could say for _sure,_ but he'd mention someone else not being qualified for their job and look _right_ at me. Or ask weird, pointed questions about the university I didn't go to so I'd have to make up something on the spot and –" his hands shook as he gestured, "– and he was laughing at me the whole time. Wasn't he?"

"It's what he does. It's what he is," Jon said darkly. "He watches other people squirm."

 _And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?_ He could almost hear the smug bastard's voice in the back of his mind, but he shook it off. That wasn't the point. He looked over at Martin, who had gone quiet, and wondered if it would be inappropriate to put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Jon continued, staying where he was. "You have every reason to feel . . . I don't know. Angry? Betrayed? Used?"

". . . The whole ‘no quitting' thing. I saw people come and go in the library a lot. It doesn't apply there, does it?"

"No. Just the archive."

"He knew about that too. Didn't he?"

"He did. That's something we have in common," Jon said softly. "I brought Tim and Sasha into this – that's my unfortunate role in it all. But you and I were placed here by someone who knew _exactly_ what he was doing to us."

". . . Fuck."

"Agreed."

"Well, I sure as hell don't trust him _now._ " Martin let out a long breath, straightening up, releasing a little of the tension he seemed to be holding. "I guess this means everyone knows? Except Sasha . . . ."

"I'm sure Sasha knows too. Do you really think we have any secrets from her?" Jon shook his head. "The other day I made an offhand comment about the trouble with statements coming from criminals, and she started needling me about the time I spent in juvenile court."

That seemed to startle Martin enough to shake his mood. "Wait, what? Back up. You've got a criminal past?"

"Nothing so dramatic," Jon huffed, waving his hand "it was all incredibly minor offenses, childish things, you know."

"Sorry, I – I'm just having trouble imagining _you_ as a juvenile delinquent."

"Whatever you _are_ imagining, it wasn't that." He leaned stiffly on the desk behind him. "I was a fairly troublesome child. I was bored easily, and I liked to explore. Sometimes I found myself on one side of a fence that I . . . simply needed to see the other side of. A number of authority figures took issue with this."

"Huh," an amused smile crossed Martin's face. "That's . . . honestly kind of adorable."

"My grandmother did not share your opinion. The point is, Sasha didn't learn that through me. She's probably dug into all of our backgrounds."

"Ugh. Probably." Martin shook his head. "We really ought to have a talk with her about that . . . it's getting less and less like a quirk and more like a serious privacy concern? I swear she sees even the monster stuff as a mystery for her to solve."

"At least she's taking it well."

"Yeah . . . not like Tim."

Not like Tim, no. He wasn't the bitter, broken man in Jon's memories. He still smiled and joked around, and he wasn't isolating himself. But the revelation about this place had reached something deep and wounded in him. He got into somber moods, and his humor had taken on a noticeably harsh edge. Even his more playful moments seemed worrying -- he was impulsive in a way he hadn't been before, like he was desperately trying to cover it all with cheer. They were still talking at least, Jon hadn't ruined that line of connection yet. But seeing Tim's pain poke its head above the surface made him fearful. He knew that it ran deep. It was hard not to be skittish around him now.

"No," Jon said. "He puts on a brave front but I know it's hit him hard."

"Have you talked to him about it at all?"

"Not really. The other day I tried to ask how he was handling things and he just . . . slowly shook his head at me. So, ah, I –" _hid in my office like a coward until everyone had left_ "– thought it best to drop the subject. You?"

"Mostly the same. I mean, I know it's bothering him, and I've tried bringing it up. But he always brushes it off with a joke, or just tells me to leave it. I think he talks to Sasha more."

"Yes . . . I'm glad he has her here," Jon sighed. "She seems to keep him grounded."

"And Sasha seems to manage on her own. So they're okay, more or less." Martin glanced pointedly at him. "What about you, though? Who's keeping _you_ grounded?"

He asked as if the answer wasn't obvious, but Jon supposed it wasn't. Not to him.

"I could ask you the same," he smiled. "You're always checking in on us. Reminding Sasha to eat, nudging Tim, seeing that I don't waste away in here. Who's checking in on you?"

"Oh. You know," he shrugged, "I-I'm pretty good at taking care of myself."

"Maybe," Jon said softly. "But you could still let somebody take care of you."

Surprised, Martin blinked and looked away with a nervous little laugh. His voice cracked slightly as he spoke – easy to miss, even easier to ignore, a quiet and ordinary pain.

"Well, unless you know someone who's likely to volunteer, I don't think –"

Jon's feet moved without his permission, one step forward, two, until he was close enough to put a hand on Martin's arm. Enough to stop his waving hand, to quiet the gesture of brushing away concern. He stilled immediately.

"You deserve to be cared for, Martin."

He knew right away it was too much. He'd crossed a line he should be leaving alone, the words were too honest and too intimate and too close. _You deserve to be cared for._ If he'd said it from across the room in a different tone of voice, it would be possible to hear as advice – something about self-care or accepting help or something more removed. But not there, not standing so close. Nothing about this was removed.

"Oh," Martin's eyes were wide and staring. "Um. Oh."

He didn't pull back, but he was stiff under Jon's hand so he let go. If – if Martin was just startled, frozen like a deer in headlights, he didn't want to box him in. Unmoored, Jon's hand hovered as if it had forgotten where it belonged.

". . . I would like to take care of you," he let it out in a breath. It felt like he'd been holding it forever. "If you would let me."

Martin breathed in sharply, but didn't speak. Jon spoke, words spilling out faster than he could hold onto them.

"I've felt this way for a while," he said. "I . . . I want to be there when you're afraid, or when you're lonely. I just. Want to be _with_ you."

That shattered something. Martin took a step back. He placed a hand over his mouth, stifling what might have been a laugh and might have been a sob, his shoulders shaking, gaze cast down and away. There were tears in his eyes and Jon knew he'd made a mistake. It was too much, too close, too soon, and he'd hurt him and he couldn't take it back and he'd ruined it all –

"Oh, Jon . . ." Martin looked at him, eyes still shining with tears. "I've been in love with you since we ran from Prentiss together."

Carefully, Jon reached forward. Martin didn't freeze and he didn't step back, he moved towards him like a miracle. Jon's hand remembered where it belonged, it ran itself along Martin's cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, smoothing the hair at his temple. Martin closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, and it was a gift, a prayer answered. He moved closer and there were Martin's arms circling him, Martin's head resting on his shoulder, Martin's breath against his ear. It was like coming home. It was like remembering himself. Nothing was certain and nothing was safe and none of that mattered at all, because finally he was back where he belonged. They were back in each other's arms.

"I love you," Jon said. "I'm so, so scared, but you give me a reason to be brave. You make me want to be human."

"I'm scared too," Martin whispered. "All the time."

"I know . . . God, I know," he whispered back. "I want us to have each other. I want to just – just take you places. To cook for you and show you things that I like. To do all the simple, normal things we could never do before."

"I want that too. I want to walk in the rain with you, and hold your hand, and read you my poetry."

"I want to fuss about my appearance, because I know I'm going to see you later," Jon laughed, "I want to worry about harmless, little things like that."

A contented sigh came from Martin. He pulled back, taking Jon's hands in both of his.

"You know what I really want to do, though?" he asked, "more than anything in the world?"

"Gouge our eyes out, murder Elias, and flee the country together?"

Martin grinned. "You read my mind."

"I didn't have to!" Jon said, grinning back.

* * *

"Jon? _Jon._ Are you all right?"

"Hmm?" Jon blinked, pulling himself back to reality. The edge of his desk still pressed against his back. "Sorry, what?"

"We were talking about Tim?" Martin frowned. "Then you just sort of stared into the distance for a minute."

"Right. Yes. Sorry," he cleared his throat, glancing away. "Low blood sugar."

"Oh. When did you last eat? I could grab something from the break room, if you–"

"S'fine. Really." Jon pulled himself back behind his desk. "I'm sure the tea will help. I should get back to work."

"Oh. Okay." Martin hesitated, glancing back. "Don't work to hard, all right? We worry about you, you know."

The door closed behind him and Jon slumped in his seat, sighing. When his own lovesick daydreams veered into self-mockery, it was probably a bad sign. He picked up the mug, letting it warm his hands, sipping slowly.

Martin had been attentive since he came back from the Distortion's door – checking in, bringing him tea, prodding him to come out for lunch. It was . . . well, it was familiar. And nice. God, it was nice. But did it mean anything? Martin was drawn to taking care of people. Fussing like this, it meant that he was worried about him, and that thought alone made something in his chest ache sweetly. But he wasn't sure if it meant anything else.

He knew Martin had feelings for him long before he himself had noticed, but where those feelings had begun, he didn't know. He absolutely didn't know how his actions might have changed things, might continue to change them. That left him guessing, and he had never been good at guessing such things. He'd admired Georgie for a while before gathering the courage to ask her out. When he had she'd been surprised – apparently she'd been flirting with him without him noticing or responding to it. By contrast, he'd been awkward around Tim for almost a week after misinterpreting a few comments he'd made and not knowing how to feel about them. (Tim had rather kindly, if embarrassingly, put an end to it by pointedly saying Jon was ‘nice, but not his type' within earshot.)

Still. He didn't need to know how Martin felt about him. He could take a risk. Risks were something he was always taking.

Things still weren't that simple.

His feelings for Martin weren't small. They had a weight that he didn't always know how to carry. He looked at him and saw someone who'd kept vigil at his hospital bed until the pain of waiting had worn him down. Someone he'd pleaded with in the cold, deep heart of the Lonely, who'd clung to him as they walked through the fog. Someone he'd been with during the last peaceful weeks the world had ever had. Someone who gave him hope when all was hopeless.

How was he supposed to make that seem like _anything_ that had developed in the time they'd known each other? At best he'd seem over-invested in a relationship that hadn't begun. More likely he'd come off as an obsessive stalker. And if he shared his feelings with Martin, he wasn't sure he could keep a lid on everything else. It wasn't just the end of the world. There were so _many_ things.

_How's the poetry going, Martin? What's that? How did I know you wrote poetry? Well, I assure you I found out through entirely non-invasive means that require no follow-up questions._

_Say Martin, how is your relationship with your mother? Any pressing emotional difficulties you'd really like to have closure on? Why yes, these_ are _extremely strange and inappropriate questions for me to ask considering you've never talked to me about her! Unrelated, but if I knew the date of her impending death do you think it would be crueler to tell you, or to let it be a devastating surprise?_

 _While we're on the subject of things I know, M_ _artin, have you ever wondered what it's like to be digested alive? Or to be an unwilling spectator trapped in you own body as it stalks and kills everyone you love? Because I can describe both of those experiences_ _in intimate, firsthand detail if you're curious! Ah, you appear to be backing away slowly. What a reasonable reaction._

Time was passing intolerably slowly, yet it still felt preciously short. And while he waited, hesitated and worried, he was running out of time for himself.

The Unknowing would fail, but the circus was still coming for him. And perhaps he should just let them have him? He'd survived it once, after all, and there was reason to assume things would play out as before. If he tried to struggle, tried to change things, it might go badly. They might decide he was too much trouble to hold for a month and flay him as soon as he was caught. Or someone else might be grabbed alongside him, even killed outright. To say the circus was unpredictable was an understatement that bordered on comical. The safest, most practical option was to play through his period of captivity again.

But . . . God, he didn't want to. He hated to admit it - wished there was another reason, some danger, some unacceptable risk. But the simple truth was that he didn't want to live through that month again.

He was being childish. It wasn't as if they would actually take his skin in the end. He wouldn't die or lose anything permanent, he just had to spend a month in their hands. It was only a month. He'd seen worse. He'd _caused_ worse. Every time he thought about it his hands shook, he felt sick and couldn't eat.

Circus aside, he'd at least learned something useful after his failure to save Helen. He'd done some snooping behind Rosie's desk and found that Elias had ordered a cab for her, just as he had done originally. Meaning he was still trying to mark him. But surely, he was marked already – psychological scars had been enough the first time, and he had the full compliment there. If Elias didn't know that, that was some reassurance.

Jon was fully marked, but he was not yet suffused with the Eye's power. So the world was safe from him, for now. All he had to do was stay human. That was it. He could surely manage _that,_ couldn't he?

Except . . . there were still other things.

The table had shaken him. He'd kept out of the archive on the day it was to arrive, not wanting to encounter Breekon and Hope. But when he returned, nothing had come. He waited, he checked and triple checked artifact storage, asked around to see if anyone had signed for it. There was nothing. After a month he accepted that it simply wasn't coming. But why? Nothing he'd done could have caused this. It was new. A change that came from something other than him.

The spiders were becoming more noticeable as well. Everywhere he went, he saw cobwebs clinging to the corners, or spotted something skittering in the outskirts of his vision. It was worst in his flat – he'd destroy any webs he found on sight, only to find they'd respun themselves hours later. They appeared in odd places – in cabinets, drawers, strung across his pillow. Sometimes he'd wake to feel something crawling on his neck, that vanished when he tried to grab at it.

They gave him peace now and then, leave him just long enough for desperate hope to leak in. Then he'd catch himself in the mirror and swear, _swear_ he noticed a dark little leg vanish into the crevice of his ear.

All that was nothing against what happened a week ago, however.

A woman had come to give a statement, someone he didn't recognize. She wouldn't take the form. She insisted he hear her speak, said he had to know her story, that it had to be him. He protested and tried to pull away. But then she started talking. And he started listening.

He didn't want to. He tried to interrupt, stop her, walk out of the room, but he just . . . couldn't. It felt different. He remembered what being dependent on statements was like – after reading out loud became automatic, after listening was a physical need. This was something else. He wasn't in control of his body, couldn't put his hands over his ears, couldn't force his thoughts away from the rapt attention he was giving her.

It was a spider one. Of course it was.

She'd succumbed to a mysterious malaise that was making her grow slowly weaker. Not an illness, no – the doctors were no help at all, sending her back with a shrug about chronic fatigue. But it wasn't just the tiredness. Her thoughts were foggy, her emotions were both heightened and muddled. It felt like being drugged, but she was on no medications and took nothing that was recreational, so it couldn't be some previously unseen side effect. It wasn't likely anything in her environment, either. Her partner had no symptoms, and they lived together and shared most of their meals.

Of course, her partner was the one who _prepared_ all their meals. She loved her partner, trusted them, and yet . . . it would be too easy, wouldn't it? To slip a little something into her plate every time. Just a few drops of liquid, a few granules of powder, carefully dissolved into a heavily seasoned sauce, undetectable under everything else? Her partner always did spice things so heavily, enough to disguise anything. Paranoia became hostility, and the relationship fell apart. But even after they moved out, that hazy, lulled feeling got worse. She had dizzy spells, lost time, she never felt quite herself. Her suspicions broadened. Was her food being contaminated at the store? It wouldn't be difficult to slide a needle through the loose, plastic packaging. Could it be one of her neighbors? She slept so heavily at night, any of them could slip in with an eyedropper to hold over her sleeping lips.

That last notion is what prompted her to place a camera over her bed.

When she played back the footage it recorded, she got an answer of sorts. She watched herself get into bed, toss and turn for a while before falling still. Then she watched as the blanket covering her sleeping form shuddered, as something dark began to spread from under it, out over her body. A swarm of tiny black spiders crawled over her, covering every inch of skin, biting her just hard enough to inject a tiny drop of venom. They withdrew a moment later, vanishing under the blanket and leaving no marks behind. She slept through it all.

None of the frantic investigations she made of her bedclothes revealed any sign of infestation. She burned the blankets and replaced the mattress, but the process repeated itself the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Even leaving her apartment didn't make a difference. Wherever she slept, they came. The watchful eye of the camera captured the same image – a thousand thousand bodies swarming over her, poisoning her, without waking her.

Each day, she grew weaker. But thanks to the camera, she knew now that there was no escape.

He'd stood frozen afterwards, whether overwhelmed by the horrors he'd been force-fed or stilled by some other hand, he didn't know, but by the time he came back to himself she was long gone. He tried asking after her – Rosie hadn't spoken to the woman much, but she did sign her in as a visitor and pointed the name out to him: Hazel Rutter. It was all he could do not to scream.

The Web had led him to the end of the world as surely as Elias had, keeping its hand in everything. And he was still dancing on its strings. Had sending his memories back been what it intended all along? Was he keeping himself free of the Beholding only so the Web could come pouring in? Would he be made into a destroyer again, remaking the world in the image of a power that had held him in its threads since childhood?

He feared being taken by the circus again, but there was another fear hidden behind that one. That this time, instead of escaping through a deceitful door, he would be freed because of a lock clogged with cobwebs, a captor bloated with venom, a path to safety marked by pale, silk threads. If his salvation came at a puppeteer's hands, what would he do then?

He didn't have an answer. He spent most of his time hiding in his office, turning over these things in his mind, and he knew that he wasn't doing well.

The more he agonized, the more confining the walls began to seem. He stood to move to the door, but stumbled and hit the floor instead. He felt lightheaded. Rather than trying to stand again, he pressed his back against the wall, pulling his knees to his chest. Motes of dust swam in his vision as he tried, desperately, to get his breathing under control.

There was a noise somewhere near him, and the room was flooded with light.

* * *

Someday, Tim was going to get it through his head that knocking on a door while opening it was basically the same as not knocking. Today wasn't that day, though.

At first he thought he'd caught Jon out of his office and had been about to leave the papers he'd brought on his desk. But then he heard something shift against the wall and his fight or flight switched right on. He should probably have wondered why, like a teen in a horror movie, his instinct was to go _towards_ the mysterious noise in the creepy, dimly-lit room. But this time it didn't matter because it wasn't an army of worms, or a soul-stealing clown. Just Jon. Sitting on the floor, breathing erratically, with a thousand yard stare on his face.

Tim hesitated, glancing quickly around to confirm that whatever Jon was spooked by wasn't still in there with them. Then he took another step forward, carefully.

". . . You okay, boss?" he asked.

Jon turned towards him and stared, his mouth moving in an unsuccessful attempt to reply. After a moment, he managed a shaky inhale and a nod.

"Yes," his voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'm fine."

Tim nodded. He wouldn't dignify that one with an eye roll or a sarcastic reply. He stood there for a little while, thinking.

There were options. He could drop the papers on the desk and leave, do a casual ‘well, see you later' as if there was nothing noteworthy about coming across your coworker having a panic attack on the floor. It was embarrassing, being found like this, and Jon would probably rather have privacy. Tim could walk right out and pretend this never happened. Or he could tap his shoulder later, after he'd pulled himself together, ask what it had been about then. If he did that, of course, Jon would no doubt say it was just a bit of stress and thank you for your concern but there's no need, and so on.

And maybe that was all right. Maybe that was all either of them needed.

Tim still remembered the early days, back before he'd gotten comfortable at the Institute. Back when Danny was too fresh and raw a wound, before the pain had dulled enough for his dazzlingly charming personality to come back. When he was quieter and much more short tempered, and the only person who tolerated him for long was a prickly nerd that most people found just as irritating as him.

There had been a lot of late nights in the library back then. Jon catching up or getting ahead on whatever bullshit they were supposed to be working on, Tim obsessing over his own work, looking for anything he could find about circuses and hidden theaters and place that take the people you love. They didn't talk that much, certainly not about the important things. There was some small talk, complaints about other people in research, arrangements to go in on takeout together. Mostly there was silence.

Sometimes Tim would take a bathroom break that lasted far too long and come back with his eyes red and puffy. But Jon never, ever commented on Tim's absence or on the state of his face. He'd sit quietly at the table across from him, occasionally remarking on something unimportant, certainly not asking what he'd been crying about. And maybe – hell, _probably –_ Jon just genuinely _didn't notice_ , because that was how Jon was. It didn't really matter either way.

Later, he would get comfortable. Later his laughter would come back, people would warm up to him and he'd warm up to them. And later, everyone would wonder how two people as different as himself and Jon could end up being friends. But during those late nights, Jon had been what Tim had needed. More than anything.

Maybe that was what Jon needed now. Someone to not notice his pain.

". . .You sure about that?" Tim asked.

Jon nodded again, whispering. "Come back later."

It was what he was asking for. No surprise there. He'd been secretive and edgy and _weird_ for ages, and Tim hated it. But still he couldn't leave. It was that face – tear—trails drying on his cheeks, but not crying. Eyes glazed, expression distant, as if he was nowhere near his body at all. It rung against Tim's core, like a familiar tune. Like tucking someone into bed on his couch and finding them gone the next morning.

He closed the door behind him and sat on the floor, putting an arm around Jon's shoulders.

"Nah," he said. "Not gonna do that."

Jon stiffened for a moment, shaking his head. "I – really, I don't need –"

Tim squeezed just the tiniest bit, and he would never hear what Jon thought he didn't need. Words dissolved, shoulders dropped.

He knew Jon's secret. He didn't come off as the touchy sort – not like Tim, who was all side-hugs and handshakes and high-fives with everyone. Jon kept a careful bubble around him, but the second that bubble was popped-- the second someone else initiated contact, that was it. He tightened his hold, and Jon let himself be pulled closer, bringing a hand up to grip Tim's arm. He took it as silent confirmation that a tighter hug was right, brought his other arm around the front and squeezed.

They sat that way a while - Tim holding Jon in place, not looking at him, focusing instead on the opposite wall. On the stacked boxes and itchy-looking olive green coat that hung on the hook. What material was that thing made of? It didn't look comfortable, and was probably a nightmare when it got wet. Tim didn't know what a head archivist got paid, but it had to be enough to afford better outerwear than that. He contemplated this as Jon shuddered against him, muffled noises coming from him in the quiet. If at any point Tim felt tears through the fabric of his shirt, he would never, ever, _ever_ admit it.

Gradually, the shaking died down. As Jon slowly relaxed, Tim felt a small, quiet tension melt out of him as well. When it felt right he loosened his grip enough for Jon to pull away. He did, taking his weight off and sitting a little straighter. He kept close, though, and didn't try to shake the arm off his shoulders. The bubble was popped.

"I-- forgive me," Jon's voice was hoarse from crying, but it sounded better than the strained crack he'd been speaking through before. "I don't know what came over me. Stress, I suppose. Getting to me a little."

"Yeah," Tim sighed, making a point to keep his tone casual. As if this was small talk, as if nothing worth commenting on had just happened. "It's been a heck of a year, huh?"

Jon let out a weak laugh, wiping his face with the end of his sleeve. "It certainly has. Hah. Exceptionally so."

"Not the cushy academic careers we were promised, huh?"

"Not in the least." Jon's face was grim. "I'm – I'm sorry. For dragging you into it."

"You didn't know about the not quitting thing. S'not your fault."

"You don't . . . ah – You don't think so?"

"Don't mistake it. I fucking hate that I'm here," he smiled without really feeling it. "If I could go back in time and make you absolutely _hate_ me, so you never wanted to see me again, so you'd ask for anyone else _,_ I'd do it. But it's not your fault. Just . . . rotten luck."

Slowly, Jon nodded. He looked surprised. This had probably been on his mind a while, then.

"Can't do that, though. So this is it," Tim sighed. "Just got to make the most of what we still have. Until something out there gets close enough to take it from us."

". . . I won't let that happen." Jon's response was immediate, reflexive, even. Sharp, quick, and absolutely meaningless.

"So what?" Tim asked. "You think you need to _let_ it happen for it to happen? That monsters are only going to get in here with your permission?"

"No . . . no, you're right," he drew a breath. "It's not as simple as that."

"I'm not saying not to fight, though. If anything comes for me, I for one plan to go down swinging."

That quieted Jon. He looked down at his folded hands, frowning, for a while.

"Just don't be too eager for it," he said eventually. His tone was strange, careful, uneasy. "Things might not always be this way. It might – might be worth staying alive a while longer."

Tim raised an eyebrow. "You know something you're not telling me?"

". . . More than you can imagine," he sighed, leaning back against the wall and letting Tim's arm slide off him. "But I can't explain. It's . . . complicated."

He could practically hear Sasha's voice in his mind, begging him to press for more. But Sasha wasn't here, and he honestly wasn't sure if he wanted to know whatever secrets Jon was holding back.

"All right, Captain Cryptic," he nudged him with an elbow. "I won't push it. Just promise me there aren't any more worm queens hiding in the walls."

"I certainly hope not. I've had enough of worms for –" Jon laughed once, to himself, looking down at his hands "—more than one lifetime."

"I'd drink to that. Now if only I had a flask to pull out here. Then you could say--" he shifted his tone, imitating Jon's voice "'Tim, I hardly think that's an appropriate thing to have in the workplace.' And I'd remind you we work in a building of pure nightmares, and tell you to stuff it."

"Honestly, if you pulled out a flask right now I'd be inclined to join you."

"Scandalous. And here I thought you were supposed to set a good example for us."

"It's become abundantly clear to me that _no one_ should be following my example."

Tim paused for a moment, then smiled. "You know what? Fuck it. I don't have a flask, but there's a bar a few blocks down." He elbowed him again, putting more weight into it and actually knocking him back a little. "Let's get shitfaced at eleven on a Tuesday morning. Not like they can fire us for it."

"Oh. Uh." Jon bit his lip, tension slipping back into him. "I'm not sure if it's a good idea for me to go outside right now . . ."

"Mmm." Nope. Tim wasn't going to let him get away that easily, and he was pretty sure he knew more than one of his secrets. "Not even if I rope Martin into coming?"

"I-- ah," Jon's gaze was suddenly on the coat that had captured Tim's attention earlier. Small world. "I don't really see how that would be relevant--"

"Would you swallow your damn pride and ask him out already? It's getting hard to watch."

A slightly choked noise came out of Jon, and his back went ramrod straight. And it was satisfying, _so_ satisfying to see that even with the danger and the fear and the cloud hanging over them all, Tim could still get him worked up over something like this.

"I don't know what-- I think you've misinterpreted. . . ."

"Have I, then? Sorry for making assumptions."

"Yes, well," he was going to bore a hole through that thing if he stared any harder at it. "You ought to be."

"In that case, guess I've got the all clear." Tim pulled a leg up, leaning casually back. "If you don't want to play hooky with me, maybe I'll see if _Martin_ wants to get drinks. Just the _two_ of us."

"—Don't."

" _Ha!_ " Tim grinned as Jon looked away again, diving wholeheartedly into friendly sadism. "Goodness. Who would have thought our beloved leader was the _jealous_ type?"

"I'm no- - that isn't- -" He frowned, shoulders hunched, quietly radiating pique. "Martin is - - he's free to do as he likes. I don't - -" he glanced back anxiously. "But you _were_ just saying that to provoke me, weren't you?"

"Seriously? Ask him out. Worst thing is he says no. And if you haven't got the guts to ask yourself, you've really no business getting riled up at the idea of someone _else_ doing it."

"I know, I _know_. . . it's just - -" Jon sighed and looked back at his hands, having apparently given up on denials. "It isn't that simple."

"Right. ‘Cause you're his boss."

"Ah . . . ." Jon blinked. "Yes, that is an issue, isn't it?"

"But really, what're you going to do? Fire him if he says no? Don't think the chain of command really means much at this point. No offense."

"Mmn."

"So. I'm going to get Sasha, and we're going to use peer pressure on him, which we all know he's helpless against. Then the three of us are going to hit the bar, because fuck this place. You joining us?"

He hesitated, conflicted. "I . . . I shouldn't."

Tim shrugged. It was disappointing, but if Jon was determined to crawl back under his desk and hide, that was his choice. He stood and headed for the door.

"Suit yourself," he said. "But don't lean to hard into the whole ‘fearless leader' thing, huh?"

"Wait –"

He paused, hand hovering over the doorknob. Jon stood uncertainly in the middle of the room.

"I, ah . . . come to think of it, I--" he glanced at the clock. "Twenty minutes? I'll meet you there."

Tim smiled. "Sounds good, boss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have once again decided to break one chapter into two -- next chapter will continue the "go to a bar" plan without a significant timeskip.


	8. Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Work is ignored.

Tim stood outside the institute door, one foot braced against the wall, glaring at the gloomy facade. All concrete pilasters and arched pediments that were probably meant to give off some classical, academic vibe, but mostly just gave shadows a place to gather. Imposing and depressing to look at, let alone to walk into day after day. Lately, just being outside was a relief.

The thing he hated the most, he reflected, was having to walk by that stupid carved owl that stared out from the keystone. There was a look that was vaguely alive and knowing in its eyes, as if it was aware he had asked for this. That he'd come to the Institute because he'd been hunting after something he shouldn't have been, and now that he'd finally gotten too close to it, he was trying to wriggle away.

God. Bad thoughts to have before noon. He really needed that drink.

It was a relief when Jon appeared. He was draped in that awful olive-green coat, and seemed surprised to see Tim waiting for him.

"Oh…" he said, "I, ah, thought I was meeting you there."

Tim grinned, trying to shake the gloom that had been threatening. "Yeah, well. Didn't want to give you the chance to get cold feet and skip out on us."

"Ah. Right." Jon glanced down the street, uncertainly. "Well then. Let's go."

They headed out. The day was overcast but not too cold, and the air was nice outside the archive. Tim talked to fill the silence, commenting on a mess of fliers taped to a closed-down storefront, or on the weather, or on anything really. Teased Jon a little on the novelty of getting him to skip out on work, but he barely seemed to register it. Jon was wound tight enough to snap, frequently turning to glance behind himself or off to the side. When Tim started to turn down an alley, a hand shot out to catch his sleeve.

"Let's not go that way," Jon stammered. "It's just. Dark alleys?"

Tim glanced down the direction he'd been turning towards – dark wasn't really accurate, it was clearly lit and not especially claustrophobic. But still. He nodded.

"Fair point. We're already living in a horror movie. No sense tempting fate."

As they continued, Tim found Jon's nervous energy was spreading. It began somewhere at the back of his neck, creeping down his spine until he found himself looking around uneasily too. He supposed he couldn't blame him for being antsy, after the corridors. But the anxiety was needling at Tim now, and he _really_ wasn't in the mood to deal with it. He needed a break to the tension.

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

Jon stiffened, sweeping a hand in front of him. "Look, if this is about Martin again, I don't- -"

"Nah, I've said my piece there. It's in your hands now. I was just wondering . . . why the Magnus Institute? Why'd you end up here?"

"Oh." Jon paused, fiddling with the edge of his coat. "An interest in the paranormal, I suppose. And, well, things lined up. Just sort of fell into it, really." He glanced carefully up at Tim. "You?"

It was one word, but he still managed to pile enough faux-casualness onto it that Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Couldn't hack it in publishing," he shrugged. "Figured academia would be lower-stress. So much for that, huh? Not exactly a dream job."

"Mmm." Jon glanced behind them again. "More like a nightmare."

Tim snorted, rolling his eyes and imitating Jon's dramatic tone. "'More like . . . _a nightmare.'_ Wow. You should do audiobooks. Or voiceovers."

"Hmmn."

"I'm serious," he nudged him with an elbow, "you could be the villain in a Saturday morning cartoon. Try saying 'curses, I've been defeated by the power of friendship!'"

"I don't believe that Saturday morning cartoons are a _thing_ anymore."

"Fine. A streaming service's reboot of a franchise from the 80s, whatever."

Jon raised his eyebrows, gaze directed down the sidewalk. A smug note entered his voice. "Says the man who has shown himself ready to regale anyone within earshot on the plots of several such reboots."

"Oh! Oh!" Tim leaned back and placed a hand on his chest in exaggerated offense. "Was that _sass_ I heard? Proper Jonathan Sims sass? It's been a while."

A smile broke on Jon's face, and he let out a quiet little _hmm_ of a laugh. Tim elbowed him again.

"Seriously," he said. "I've been missing it, the way you've been tiptoeing around lately."

"Happy to provide," Jon muttered. He paused then, his expression changing, brow furrowing. "Thank you for dragging me out here. I, ah . . . I'm glad. To be doing this."

"Sure. S'been a while since any of us have done something outside work."

"Yes. I . . . ." He trailed off, staying quiet for so long that for a moment it seemed unlikely he was going to pick up his train of thought again. "I don't seem to be good at keeping friends. Something just goes wrong, somehow, possibly – probably – it's my fault. And I, ah – I appreciate your friendship, Tim."

He was looking down, hands in his pockets, eyes on the sidewalk ahead, and Tim blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift. Where the hell had that come from? The shock didn't last, though. He threw an arm over Jon's shoulders, making him jump.

"Hey, don't worry about it," he brought his arm back behind Jon's head, mussing his hair. "I already know you're a total prick."

"Glad to hear it," he kept his eyes down, unconvincing irritation in his voice.

"Sheesh. You're not even drunk yet, and you're getting all sincere," he grabbed and squeezed his shoulder, giving him a playful little shove. "Can't wait to see what you're like after you've had a few highballs or gin rickeys, or whatever weird old man cocktail you like."

"All right, all right, all right . . . ."

The smile on Jon's face was obvious now, and the nervous energy he'd left the institute with seemed to be slowly dissipating. Tim glanced down the street and saw that they weren't far from their destination.

"Gonna text Sash, let her know we're almost there."

"Shouldn't do that while walking," Jon muttered.

Tim made a mocking noise in the back of his throat that had a similar cadence to Jon's complaint.

"Really," Jon huffed, voice shifting into that overly formal tone of his, to the comfortable pattern of complaints and jabs. "It's a matter of public safety."

"Good point. From now on, I'll only text while I drive."

As he thumbed open his phone, a faint but familiar sound hit Tim's ears. Something in him froze. The sound grew louder, clear enough for individual notes to rise out of the constant city background. A sick chill ran through him as the distant music filled his ears and mind.

He slowed, closed his eyes and took a breath. It was nothing. He knew it was nothing. Some ice cream van or traveling carnival was passing nearby, playing a tinny, recorded song on a loop, that was all. It had happened before. It wasn't his fault that the sound of a calliope made his teeth clench and his stomach knot regardless.

With a moment, he managed to settle himself and opened his eyes. He turned towards Jon, wondering whether he'd noticed and already opening his mouth to brush it off with an excuse. But Jon wasn't next to him anymore. He was standing a few paces back, frozen on the sidewalk. Stock-still and eyes wide.

That tight, coiling fear was back in full force. He looked at Tim and began to back away.

"I- I have to go," he said, "forgot something. You go on ahead--"

He took a step, then another, and then Tim grabbed his arm, holding him back before he could bolt.

"Hell no. What's going on?"

" _Please_ , Tim!" Jon jerked twice, but couldn't break the hold. He put a hand over his arm, looking at him pleadingly. "Please, I– I have to go–"

Another chord came on the breeze. It might have been Tim's imagination, but he _swore_ it was getting closer. Jon's eyes widened.

"We need to run," he whispered. "We need to get out of here, _now._ "

"Yeah. All right. Which way?"

"I don't know. . . ." Jon looked in one direction, then another. "Someplace we'll be seen. Someplace we'll be _known_ . . . but the Institute is too far."

Tim glanced at the street signs at the end of the block, a thought forming. "I got you. C'mon."

They ran. Tim kept his grip on Jon as they headed towards a familiar corner. He could sense Jon struggling to keep pace, but he didn't ask to slow down. The music was _following_ them. It seemed to grow louder and quieter at random, disconnected from their movements, making it impossible to pinpoint where it could be coming from. They didn't stop.

Eventually they took a turn and there were people again, a small mid-day crowd that politely ignored them as they jogged past. Tim slowed outside a deli that was a few blocks away from the Institute. They'd been there countless times before – the sandwiches weren't good but they were cheap and easy, and like everything else about that place, familiar. The bell rang over the door as Tim pushed it open and the owner glanced in their direction, smiling from behind the counter.

"Morning, Tim. Picking up?"

Somehow, he managed to smile back, somehow he kept his voice steady. "Nah. Just here to mooch off your air conditioning."

He put his hands on Jon's shoulders and steered him towards one of the little tables to the side, sitting him down. Jon was scanning the room, eyes quick, hands fidgeting.

"This could work," he muttered, barely glancing at Tim. "Enough people, but not so many that someone can vanish into a crowd. And security cameras, mirrors. That should help."

Good to know, whatever the hell that meant. Tim positioned himself so that he could keep one eye on the door, another eye on Jon. He didn't sit down.

"What the hell just happened?"

Jon glanced up as if only just remembering he was there, then turned his gaze away again.

"Had a bad feeling," he muttered. "Probably nothing. But, ah, we should stay here a while all the same. In case."

Nope. That wasn't going to do it this time. Tim lowered his voice.

"It was the music. Wasn't it?"

A flinch ran through Jon and his frown deepened. "It was a sudden anxiety attack. That's all."

"Yeah. That you had because you heard _calliope_ music," Tim heard his own voice crack on the word 'calliope.' "Why?"

Silence. Jon's body was stiff, his mouth a hard line, hands in fists at his sides, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. He was locking down, keeping quiet with a stubborn look on his face that told Tim he was set on staying that way. He could be such a child sometimes.

"Has this got something to do with the circus?" he prodded. "The Russian one, from the statements?"

Eyes down, not moving, no reply. Fine. That was fine. Tim could live in stubborn silence just as long as he could. They could both grow old and die in this deli for all he cared.

"So that's a yes," Tim continued after a moment of quiet. "Look, I know being cagey and mysterious is your whole _thing_ lately. But this is different. If the circus is _here_ , if it's coming after us, you _need_ to tell me what you know--"

"--They aren't coming after us."

"Then why did you look like a surfer that just heard the Jaws theme playing?" A fierce edge was creeping into Tim, and he tried to keep his voice down. "You develop a sudden fear of ice cream vans?"

Jon grimaced, gripping the edge of the table. He stayed quiet. Tim took a breath, counting slowly in his head. If Sasha were here, she'd probably find some way to settle them both down. To gently nudge herself past Jon's walls and get to the bottom of this. But Tim wasn't Sasha. All he knew about walls was how to bash himself against them. That was what he had.

"Let me put it this way," he continued, his voice quiet and dangerous. "There's something going on. It involves the Circus, and it's immediate enough that we needed to run for our lives just now. So if you don't tell me what this is, _now,_ I am holding you responsible for absolutely everything that comes of it."

There was a moment of silence, and then Jon spoke.

"They aren't after us," he sighed. "They're after me. Just me."

". . . Gonna need more than that."

"It's – part of what I am now, the head archivist of the Magnus Institute. Unwanted attention from things like that is just one of the strings attached to this job. The Other Circus wants me now."

Acid rose in Tim's throat, it tasted like colors and shapes and movement that was felt but not seen. "Wants you," he said flatly.

"Well. Not all of me," Jon shrugged. "Just my skin."

The floor seemed to sway for a moment, and Tim leaned on the table, taking slow, deep breaths while Jon continued.

"They're going to come after me at some point, but what I don't know is where and when it'll happen. It's why I've kept to the archive so much lately. Trying to ensure that I don't run into one of them coming or going."

Tim's brain finally processed the events of the last few hours. "And you were going to let me take you to a _bar?_ "

"I didn't expect you to be with me!" Jon snapped, indignant. As if Tim was the one being unreasonable. "I'd intended to walk there on my own! If today turned out to be the day they came for me, they would almost certainly come once I was outside and alone. And if they didn't, I'd have arrived with no issue. _You're_ the one who wouldn't meet me there."

"Jesus, Jon," Tim shook his head. "Where do I begin? You do _not_ get to be mad at me for messing up your plan to get kidnapped."

"I'm not _planning_ to get kidnapped," Jon sulked. "I don't have any say in the matter. But I might at least have a little control over the circumstances."

"Is that what this is about? Having control? You'd rather jump into their arms than live in fear of them grabbing you?"

"No! But if I'm alone--"

"If you're alone they'll definitely get you –"

"Better that than _you_ with me!" Jon snapped . " If I'm not alone when they come, anyone nearby will be in danger. _You'd_ be in danger."

"And you _wouldn't?_ "

"Of course, but-- they won't--" Jon sputtered, anger and fear visibly fighting for control of his mouth. "They won't _kill_ me. Not right away, anyhow."

"That is the _opposite_ of reassuring."

"What matters is they'll want to hold me for a while, draw things out. I'll have time to get away. But I can't say whether that's true for anyone else, if you got in their way they'd probably just kill you."

There was an uncomfortable stirring in Tim's chest. It twisted and clawed, jerking like an animal with its leg caught in a trap. It was a feeling he didn't know the name of. What he _did_ know was that if the circus was coming for Jon, Tim was absolutely getting in their way. He took out his phone and dialed.

"Hey!" Sasha's voice was a breath of air, refreshing in its sudden normalcy. "Where are you guys? Martin and I are _dominating_ at pub trivia, but we need your knowledge of 80s movies."

"Change of plans," Tim said. "I need to borrow the beetle. You still keep the spare key in your desk?"

". . . Ye-e-es. I do. Is everything all right?"

"Jon's not feeling well. I'm taking him home for the day."

There was a pause on the other end, just long enough to be noticeable. Tim wasn't really disguising his tone of voice, no doubt she sensed something wrong. But when she spoke again, her tone was perfectly casual and cheerful.

"Ah, well. That's a shame, but better safe than sorry I suppose. See you later, then."

"Yeah. Bye."

Almost as soon as he hung up, Tim saw a text notification appear: _A_ _re you all right? what's really going on?_ He put the phone in his pocket without answering.

"I'll go back to the Institute," Jon spoke quickly. "They're gone by now, I'm sure. Just stay here for a while, then you can –"

"Jon?" Tim said.

"Hmm?"

"Shut up."

* * *

The walk back was tense, this time with both of them glancing in every direction. But there was no strange music to be heard, and no shadowy figures lurking just out of sight. Jon seemed to think that being near the Institute gave them some sort of protection, though the only explanation he offered was 'they don't like being seen.'

He only protested a little as Tim got Sasha's keys and pressed him into the passenger's seat of her car, and when asked he reluctantly gave up his address. They drove in silence for a while before he spoke up again.

". . . I'm sorry," he said softly.

Tim looked over at him, then back towards the road. He nodded. "We'll figure it out."

"Please stay away from this. There's really nothing you can do."

A hollow laugh came out of him. "Sure. _The show must go on,_ right? Well, fuck that."

"You can't _hurt_ them, Tim. They aren't _human,_ they don't work that way," he grit his teeth, looking out the side window. "It's like trying to get revenge on a tornado. You can't. All you can do is throw yourself senselessly at it and be destroyed."

Tim was stunned into quiet. When he spoke again his voice was dark.

"What do you mean? What do you mean, 'revenge'?"

Jon flinched. Again, the hard, stubborn mouth, fists clenched, eyes down. Tim was quiet for a while.

"Did Sasha tell you, then?" he asked, low anger in his voice.

"No." Jon said. "And I'm sorry. And it doesn't matter. Everything I just said is true. You can't _hurt_ them. Not like they can hurt you."

Another long silence, words hanging in the small space of the car.

"You're not going to make me let this go," Tim said. "So you can stop trying."

"Tim. Please. I'm sorry, but--"

"Why –" he grit his teeth. "Why do you keep _apologizing_ to me?"

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the ride.

* * *

Jon said nothing as Tim followed him to his building and then up the stairs, and he didn't comment when he stood behind him, waiting for him to unlock the door.

Inside was pretty much what Tim would have expected from Jon's flat – clean but disorganized, books and papers left in piles here and there. He noticed several cardboard boxes taped shut and stuck in corners, unlabeled, and didn't speculate on what might be in them. Jon turned towards him and folded his arms.

"All right. You've seen me home, safe and sound. Are we done here?"

Good question. Tim honestly wasn't sure what else he planned to do, but Jon's tone stuck in the contrary bits of him, made him all the more certain that he wasn't leaving yet.

"Nope," he put his hands on Jon's shoulders, firmly guiding him to a small, nearby couch. "Sit down."

Clearly Jon wasn't happy, but he didn't resist either – for all his protests, he folded quickly when Tim put his foot down and pressed. It shouldn't have been surprising, really. He was apparently resigned to getting pushed around by the circus, at least now he was letting himself be pushed around by somebody who gave a damn.

Tim checked the door first, locking both locks and pulling the security chain shut. He patrolled around the rest of the place methodically – checking windows, closing curtains, locking what could be locked and moving furniture in front of anything that looked like a way in. It was with a little surprise that he learned Jon kept both a crowbar and a hatchet in his kitchen, and he set them both aside. Probably good to have a potential weapon on hand.

He didn't really know what he was doing. A few self-defense classes and one book about spy skills that Danny had infodumped to him about a couple of times didn't exactly make him an MI5 agent. But it gave him something to do, at least. Jon watched him silently from the couch as he went from room to room. Eventually, he sighed.

"What are you even doing? Really? What's all this for?"

"Dunno," Tim admitted. He hovered in the front room, holding Jon's crowbar casually against his leg, glancing towards the windows. "Keeping watch? Making the place more secure?"

"This is absurd. They probably won't even come tonight. Are you planning to follow me everywhere I go from now on?"

"Maybe. Why not?" Tim cocked his head, smiling. "Worried you'll get sick of me?"

A ridiculous little smile spread across Jon's face, as if there was a joke that Tim was missing. "Wouldn't you say that's an invasion of privacy?"

"According to you're we're all being stalked by Elias. Feels like that ship's already sailed."

Jon shook his head. "And what are you going to do if something actually _does_ show up? Hit it with a crowbar? It doesn't work like that."

"Guess we'll find out when it happens."

"They will _kill_ you," he growled. "Can't you get that through your head? They'll kill you, and then they'll take me, and you'll die for _nothing._ Is that what you want?"

"You're so damn sure that they're coming for you and there's nothing you can do about it," Tim raised his voice, giving into the argument. "I'm not the one being self-destructive here."

"I don't want this either! I don't – don't want to –" he swallowed hard. "But you're only putting us both in greater danger by acting reckless and _stupid_ , and I am not going to _lose_ you!"

"Well I'm not losing _you_ either!" Tim shouted.

 _That_ shut him up. Jon stared, shocked, looking like he'd been slapped. Then his shoulders slumped, and he only looked sad.

"You may not have a choice," he said softly. "In the end."

Tim leveled his gaze at him. ". . .Then I'm not letting you go without a fight."

Jon sighed, not one of his familiar, exasperated sighs but a long, slow release. He sank back into the couch and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"There are things you don't know about me, Tim."

Dismissively, Tim snorted. "Got a bunch of bodies under the floorboards, huh?"

"I told you that this job has strings attached. It isn't just external things," Jon looked up at him, solemnly. "Being the Archivist has already changed me. It's made me more a part of the Institute . . . and part of the forces that control it."

A chill ran through Tim at that. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that I have more in common with the monsters you're trying to protect me from than I do with the man you met in research."

Jon got up from the couch and calmly, deliberately walked to the door. Tim watched as he undid the locks and slid back the security chain, pulling the door open.

"You'd be better off putting that effort towards keeping yourself and the others safe," he said, holding the door expectantly, waiting for him to walk out. "Because I'm already not human."

All the petulant frustration was gone, Jon stood with a look of dark, calm certainty on his face. It looked wrong on him somehow, didn't fit, felt cold in a way that didn't seem like Jon. His eyes were cold and resigned, with something behind them Tim knew he shouldn't look closely at.

He believed him. He wasn't a fool, he could _feel_ that something was different. The stirring thing in his chest began taking teeth to its own leg in desperation. Something wasn't right anymore, and it would never be right again.

"You _have_ changed," he said, voice barely a whisper.

Jon nodded.

Slowly, he walked to the door. He gripped the edge of it in his hand and slammed it closed. Jon blinked in surprise as Tim glared at him.

"But you're still a stubborn, melodramatic prick."

Jon glared back. "If I'm stubborn, what are you?"

"Oh, I'm worse." It wasn't a smile on Tim's face, it was a baring of teeth, a threat in the shape of a smile. "You think I don't know what you're doing?"

"I'm trying to explain--"

"You're trying to get me to leave."

"For your own good! I'm not the person you should be worried for here--"

"Then why don't you prove it?" Tim's jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. "You want me to go? To stop giving a shit about what happens to you? Show me what a monster you are."

"What does _that_ mean?"

Reckless, stupid, Tim kept talking. "It means get your claws out. Rip off your face or unhinge your jaw or whatever it is you do. Come at me and _show_ me what it is I've got to be worried about."

"That's not –" Jon said, "I don't do that, it's . . . it's not my _thing._ "

"Not your 'thing,'" Tim spat laughter. "Right, obviously."

Stupid, reckless, he took a step closer to Jon – who flinched back, turning towards himself. Tim didn't know what he was doing. He _really_ didn't know what he was doing. The crowbar was heavy in his hand, and the calliope screamed in his mind, and he had just closed himself in a room with someone who'd told him he was part of the thing keeping him trapped. But the clawing in his chest was tearing him apart now, and there could be no considering his actions.

". . . I _could_ prove it, though." Jon looked back at him, a strange glint in his eyes. Something dark and threatening edged into his voice, and the fury in Tim's chest gripped tighter. "I know things. Terrible things, secrets that I shouldn't be able to know. There are things I could tell you that you wouldn't want to hear. That would _destroy_ you."

"You know, I actually believe that one," Tim grinned mirthlessly. "Because the more I think about it – I don't think Sasha _would_ have told you about Danny. She _knows_ how much that would hurt me, and you're obviously not sharing notes with her, so why should she start blabbing to you ? So yeah. I bet you do know things, bet there are things you could _wreck_ me with if you wanted to. So what are you waiting for?"

"Tim . . . ."

"What's the hold up? If you want to get rid of me, then _get rid of me_ \--"

"Stop. I- I don't --"

"You say you're a part of all this? Fine. Then let's have it out now, let's get it over with, why wait?" Tim's heart was pounding a mad, frantic beat as he stalked forward. Almost without thinking, he gave Jon a shove with his free hand, trying to provoke him. "Show me what a--"

" _Get away from me!_ "

Jon pushed back with a sudden violence -- one hand catching Tim on the shoulder, the other on his arm. The panic that had been building in Tim went white-hot, he stumbled backwards, too startled to react. Jon looked back at him, his expression nothing but animal fear and anger. Then it softened into one of shame, and he stepped back.

Tim stared for a moment as Jon caught his breath. He folded his arms.

"Yeah. S'what I thought," he shook his head. "Get over yourself, Jon. You're not a monster. You're just a weird, scared little man."

". . . What do you _want_ from me, Tim?" Jon's voice was quiet . "I don't understand what it is you _want._ "

"Don't think I do either. Maybe I'm just spitting into the wind."

The room slowly filled with the sort of silence that only follows shouting. Jon walked back to the couch and sat there for a moment, taking a few deep breaths. He ran a hand through his hair.

"Look. You can stay here tonight if you want," he said. "If it will make you feel better. But you can't be with me all the time. You _know_ that isn't sustainable."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to let them come after you?"

"No." Jon said firmly. "You're supposed to trust me when I say I'm not trying to get myself killed. I have good reason to believe I'll get away from them. There are things I know now, and . . . well, none of the strings attached are _good,_ but sometimes they can be useful. I can't explain any more than that."

"That's a pretty big fucking ask," Tim frowned. "And since when are we all about trust, when you've been hiding this and who knows what else from the rest of us? You're asking me to trust without giving trust back."

"I know. I'm asking a lot of you."

Tim waited for him to continue, to add a 'but,' but apparently that was it. He sat down on the floor, his back against the side of the couch, and let the crowbar slip from his hand. He didn't look in Jon's direction.

"Least you're honest," he said.

"And if – if I go missing eventually, I need you to keep yourself and the others safe while I can't. Until I come back."

" _If_ you come back."

"That's part of trust," Jon said gently. "It's the hardest part, really. Letting someone else handle things for themselves, even if they might be wrong. Even if they might get hurt."

Tim's hands clenched. He slid forward, looking at his shoes, not wanting to meet Jon's gaze. A cautious hand came down to touch his shoulder, and he didn't shake it off. He felt stubborn, and strangely childish. When had the switch happened, he wondered?

"If I trust you," he muttered, "and let you go and do this, and you _don't_ come back?"

Jon paused. ". . . Wait until Elias starts looking for a new archivist. If that happens, try to quit again, and get the others to do the same."

Tim didn't ask what that meant. If he did, Jon might tell him, and he was sure that he didn't want that.

"If I say yes," it felt like a surrender just saying it, but he continued, finally looking up at Jon. "Then when this is over, when you _do_ come back, you're going to tell me everything. That's not negotiable."

". . . All right."

He felt the echoes of adrenaline slowly drain away. In the silence that followed, both of them could hear the chirp of a text notification coming from Tim's pocket, followed by a second one, then a third. Jon looked at him questioningly, and he took out his phone. Several texts from Sasha.

_Everything okay over there?_

_text me back when you can_

_Seriously I will find you_ _Stoker._ _Joking not joking_

He pulled himself onto the couch next to Jon, typing a response.

 _had a scare but its_ _ok_ _, chilling @ jon's_ _now_

 _good_ _if i return the beetle 2morrow?_

Immediately, three dots hovered on the screen as Sasha replied.

_:O_

_you're lucky I'm too wine drunk to drive_

_but yes, Martin and I can split a cab. Talk to you tomorrow?_

"Didn't think Sasha used those."

Tim turned to find Jon peering over his shoulder. He was looking at the little emoji at the top of her message.

"Obviously you haven't unlocked the high level of friendship that I have, nosy bastard," he sent a thumbs up as a response and locked his phone again. "Anyone ever tell you it's rude to read over people's shoulders?"

". . . Sorry."

Tim glanced at the screen once more before putting his phone away. The scratching, clawing thing inside him hadn't left, it was just too tired to fight anymore. Too worn down from fear and anger and sorrow to do anything but lie still and wait for whatever would come. He sank into Jon's couch.

"Well. I'm sure as hell not going back to work today."

"Mmm."

"I dunno. Do you want to just--" he swallowed, unsteady. "I don't really want to think, y'know? W-Want to just watch some movies or something?"

"Oh. Um . . . sure." A small, careful smile spread over Jon's face. "I think that sounds about my speed just now."

Jon's Netflix queue was nothing but documentaries, so Tim picked one he hadn't seen yet and they settled in, letting the light and sound wash over them. Tim found himself coming and going in waves, losing himself in the screen for a while before surfacing again, then repeating. Every now and then he'd glance over at Jon, sometimes watching him for a long moment, not really sure what he was looking for. Occasionally, he'd look over and find Jon was looking back at him.

When the first one ended, they let autoplay go to the next, and the next. Pausing once to order food and again to answer the door when it arrived. Jon went tense when the doorbell rang, sagging into a sheepish relief after answering it. When Tim asked what that had been about, he shook his head.

"Just a foolish thought. About . . . delivery," he shook his head again. "Wasn't anything."

Tim didn't ask. They ate in silence, draped on the couch.

They were halfway through a film on Gaudi when Tim felt his head start to dip. It was early, barely evening, but the exhaustion of the afternoon followed by the slow drone of documentaries was settling in on him, and keeping his eyes open didn't seem worth the effort anymore. He looked over at Jon and saw that he was similarly nodding, eyes half-closed.

"You look as tired as I feel," Tim said.

"Mmmhm." Jon yawned. "I'll take the couch. You can have my bed."

"You sure?"

"Quite sure. I can actually lie down on it. _You'd_ have to spend the night with your legs half on the floor."

Tim snorted. " 'Preciate it."

Too tired to talk, they went about the quiet business of getting ready for bed. Pulling out linens, setting alarms, and shutting down for the night. In a few minutes, it was finished and Tim stood in the doorway to Jon's bedroom, hesitating. Watching the back of Jon's head as he sat on the edge of the couch, fiddling with his phone. The days were still short enough that the sun was down despite the early hour, and the apartment was pitch black save for the one small lamp. It made the tiny sofa into an island, surrounded by the dark.

Eventually, Jon seemed to notice Tim staring and turned, looking questioningly at him.

"Need something?"

"This is what you meant. Isn't it? When you said things weren't simple with Martin," he gestured outwards, indicating nothing in particular. "All this shit."

". . . You have to admit my very presence puts him in danger."

"S'not what I meant." Tim shook his head. "You don't want him to get too attached. Do you?"

Jon paused, set his phone down on the floor, then turned to the lamp and switched it off.

"Goodnight, Tim," he said firmly.

There was nothing more to say. Tim went to bed.

* * *

He left early the next morning, giving himself time to shower and change at his place before dropping by Sasha's to give her a ride to work. Fortunately it didn't take her long to pick up that he really, _really_ wasn't up for questions about the previous night. She pretended to be satisfied by a simple 'everything's fine,' then passed the rest of the ride by complaining how she and Martin had been cheated in pub trivia by a "really very subjective" ruling on what counted as science fiction. The drive over was easy.

By the time they arrived at the Institute, Jon was already in his office. Tim settled resignedly at his own desk and picked up one of the files that he'd left the previous day, looking it over with negative enthusiasm. He'd barely been sat down for ten minutes when his concentration was broken by a clink, as two empty mugs were placed in front of him. He looked up to see Jon uncorking a bottle of wine.

"Given we missed getting day-drunk with the others yesterday, I thought this might be a fair substitute," he smiled. "As gestures of workplace defiance go."

Blinking, Tim smiled back. "Nice one. The wine anything special?"

"Oh yes. Finest vintage the local grocer's had on sale."

"You spoil me."

This felt like a gift. Tetchy, stuffy Jon smuggling a little bottle of fuck-you into the room. It was small, and rare, and it made Tim feel a little less tired of everything.

"I must be a bad influence on you," he said.

Jon smirked. "I've had worse."

He finished pouring and picked up his mug, holding it out for a toast. A quiet clink, a few quiet sips.

"Boss makes a dollar, I make a dime," Tim said, "that's why I drink on company time."

"If the 'boss' in that couplet is me, I assure you that I am not paid that well."

"Yeah. I've seen that ratty old coat you wear."

"What's wrong with my coat?" Jon frowned, mock-offended.

"Nothing. I just feel bad for all the second-hand sofas that were slaughtered to make it."

"Hmm." Jon took a sip. "'Boss is a monster, so I can't quit . . . .'"

". . . We'll have some vino, and he can eat shit," Tim finished.

"And I thought there was only one poet in the archives," Jon smirked, setting the bottle down on Tim's desk. "Try not to work too hard. I'll come back later with something to waste your time on."

"Works for me."

With a satisfied smile, Jon slipped back into his office as Tim turned back to the files. He sorted through them, occasionally taking a sip from his mug and letting the sweet, warm sensation spread down his throat.

Halfway through the pile, he stopped. A plain, manila folder had been slipped in among the others, stuck inconspicuously the middle. There was a blue post-it note stuck to the front that read _T. Stoker – top priority_ in Elias's neat, looping handwriting.

Against his better judgment, Tim opened it. Inside was a small stack of written statements, alligator-clipped together. He scanned the summary at the top of the first one: _Statement of Elliott Hughes regarding a visit to the House of Wax Museum in Great Yarmouth._

He set the mug down and began to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last update of 2020! I'm going to visit family for a bit (I've been quarantined for two weeks and the family in question is retired and completely isolated themselves, don't worry!) and likely won't have time to work on it there.
> 
> Given my already sketchy update schedule I'm hoping to get the next chapter done sometime in January, likely late January. I know where I'm planning to go with this and have the ending in mind, so it's just a matter of getting there. Thank you to everyone who's enjoying this and especially everyone who comments. Even if I don't reply directly I delight in every one of them, and they absolutely motivate me to write!


	9. A Disappearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several employees become preoccupied with personal projects. The archive has a minor infestation.

Martin leaned against the break room counter, phone to his ear. As before, the call went directly to voice mail.

"Don't know what I expected," he muttered to himself. He'd called twice already that morning, third time wasn't going to be the charm.

The sound of the kettle came nearby, and he paused to pour water into two mugs. As the tea steeped, he brought his phone up to stare at the familiar number. Pushed down a tiny, anxious compulsion to just call again, as if that would accomplish anything. The phone was either on silent or powered down, either way he wasn't getting through.

Sasha _always_ had her phone on her. She _always_ had it charged. Martin had never known her to go more than a few hours without responding to texts or missed calls. Really, he had no idea how she kept on top of it.

Maybe she'd caught the flu and was sleeping all day, too tired to call in or charge her phone? Or maybe she'd _lost_ her phone. It happens. You couldn't assume someone was missing just because they'd skipped a couple days of work, could you? One and a half days, really, since it was barely past noon. And the weekend, of course, no one had seen her then. But that was the weekend.

Reassurances like these might have sat easier with him if it weren't for the time Jon had vanished into a set of supernatural corridors. As was, things were beginning to feel uncomfortably familiar.

He opened his text history with Tim, knowing as he did there'd be nothing to see.

_Martin:_ _are you_ _at the institute_ _?_

_Tim:_ _nah nowhere near_

_Tim:_ _doing some field work_

_Martin:_ _oh :/ are you coming in at all today?_

_Tim:_ _probably not. dw i texted jon, he knows_

_Tim:_ _tell him not to worry, just doing some recon_

_Martin:_ _maybe you should call and tell him yourself? he seems pretty upset_

_Tim:_ _it's cool. i_ _'m gonna have my phone off so i won't see texts for a while :) ttyl_

_Martin: I really, really think you should call Jon and talk to him_

_Martin: seriously. Things are getting weird here_

That exchange had happened that morning, and there'd been no word from Tim since then. Martin didn't _like_ this feeling. Half of him thought he was worrying over nothing, while the other half suspected that he wasn't worrying _enough._ And the only other person in the archive wasn't likely to provide a model of stability anytime soon.

He remembered what it had been like during the two weeks Jon had disappeared. The first days had been marked by a passive confusion, with the three of them going about things normally, occasionally looking up and asking _has_ _he_ _still not come in? Did you see him at all? Should somebody call him?_ Idle concern that grew into anxiety as more time passed.

After four days of it, Martin went to Elias to ask whether Jon had called in, if he knew where he was. Elias had said something vague about field research. Said that it was open ended, and no he didn't know when Jon would be back. Added with a smirk that he was taking a "hands off" approach with him. When Martin pressed for more, expressed worry that he wasn't answering his phone, Elias had given him a knowing smile that made him feel like he was naked in public. He'd suggested Martin might be letting his own "personal preoccupations" color things, and reminded him that repeated phone calls can make one look rather desperate for someone's attention. Martin had shuffled off, face burning, and not brought it up again.

Elias's explanation and lack of concern had kept them all complacent for too long. But Martin shouldn't have been complacent. He should have known better. No, that wasn't even it – he _did_ know better. Deep down he'd known something was wrong, because he'd spent so much of those weeks worrying.

Worrying, and thinking about those days he'd spent trapped in his flat, slowly accepting that no help was coming, that the outside world had shrugged at his absence and moved on. He remembered worrying what would happen to his mother when the payments for her care stopped coming. And thinking that the others at work might not even learn he was dead unless his landlord gave a statement about the rotting, buzzing, hole-shot thing he'd find when he finally came to evict him.

Sitting with his back to the wall, cold, tired and halfway to delirium, Martin had hoped that they'd feel guilty when he did.

It had been some consolation to learn Jane had been using his phone, that there was a _reason_ nobody had looked. Nursing resentment, he'd thought to himself that ‘stomach problems' had been a weak excuse. But then, an even weaker excuse alongside a snide comment about how _obvious_ Martin was had been all it took to stop him asking questions, so how much worse was he? He'd known something was wrong, but instead of doing anything he'd kept his head down, and worried, and hoped it would work out.

Tea finished, he brought the mugs out to the bullpen. Jon was already there, bent over Sasha's desk -- he'd emptied the contents of her drawers all around him and was sifting through them, brow furrowed. He looked up as Martin entered.

"Anything?" he asked, expectantly.

"Still no answer . . . should you really be going through her things like that?"

"Yes, it's fine." Jon waved a hand and turned back to the papers he'd been looking at.

The question had been rhetorical, not an opportunity for Jon to give himself permission to keep rifling. Martin decided to let it go.

"She didn't tell you what she was working on, did she?" Jon asked. "Anything that could give you a clue where she'd be headed?"

"Not really," a twinge somewhere, because since when did anyone tell _him_ anything? "I mean, she's been looking up statements for some research she's doing, but she's secretive about what it is. I think has something to do with Gertrude? She's been talking about her a lot, anyway."

"That isn't much help . . . there's too many directions it could lead. And that's just the ones that I know about . . . ."

"Sorry . . . I wish I knew more." Maybe it was the anxiety already swirling in Martin's stomach that made Jon's tone cut through him the way it did. It was hard to say.

"It's _something._ A starting point, at least." Jon sighed, shoving some papers haphazardly into a drawer. Assuming Sasha wasn't eaten alive by some nightmare creature, she was _definitely_ going to notice when she got back. He pulled a notebook from his pocket and began scribbling in it. "I'll try making a list of relevant statements, maybe we can check whether she accessed them recently."

Martin stepped a little closer to peek at what he was writing: _0081912, 9522002_ _(would she recognize the voice?)_ _0141010, 0063011, 0090202_ _(anything involving A. or L.F.)_ The moment he realized Martin was watching, Jon frowned, flipped the notebook closed and stuck it back into his pocket.

"What about Tim? Have you been able to reach him at all? I think he's flat-out _ignoring_ me at this point."

"No. His phone rings, but he doesn't answer. Last we talked he just – well, see for yourself."

He displayed the last text conversation. Jon's eyes scattered over the words, then he grabbed the phone from Martin's hand and began typing a reply. Martin barely had time to sputter a _hey!_ before it was handed back to him: _Sasha is missing. Call immediately. -J_

Terse, but he supposed it might get Tim's attention. Martin looked up to see Jon pacing back towards Sasha's desk, shaking his head.

" ‘Recon . . .' there are only a few places that could mean, and all of them are bad," he muttered. "I'm going to have to go after him, aren't I? I'm going to _have_ to – but there's only one way that can end for me and I can't – not yet, not while Sasha's still gone. . . "

Martin frowned. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night." There was a note of triumph in Jon's voice, an unspoken _so there._ "The same as you, presumably."

"Okay. How much sleep did you actually get, though _?_ "

"I don't know. Not much. Doesn't matter . . . can't sleep anyway." His voice dropped in register and he muttered, "spiders" like it was the name of his mortal enemy. Martin considered mentioning something about how they'd at least keep more harmful pests out of his home, but thought better of it.

"Okay, then. . . suppose I'll file _that_ away with all the other weird, cryptic things you keep saying." At that, Jon gave him an aching look that made him instantly regret saying anything.

"I'm sorry, Martin. I _am_ trying to be more forthcoming. I t's just – well, it's difficult . A nd I'm afraid it's already making things _worse_. . . ."

"Look . . . you don't have to tell me everything, okay?" Martin said. "Just let me _help._ If you think you know where Tim's vanished off to, _tell_ me. I can check in on him if you can't. Really, I'd rather be doing that than sitting here doing nothing--"

The rest was cut off by Martin's yelp of surprise, as Jon closed the distance between them, grabbing him tightly by the shoulders.

" _No!_ Don't you _dare._ Not you _too,"_ Jon's voice began to crack. "Please . . . if I can't even keep _you_ safe . . . ."

His eyes were wide, and he was holding Martin very, very closely. As Martin tried to think of what to say to _that,_ tried even to remember how words worked, his phone rang and startled them both. Jon's grip on him loosened and he pulled away to check it – it was Tim.

"Put it on speaker," Jon said. He did, and Tim's voice came out before Martin had the chance to say hello.

"Martin. What's going on?"

"I see _now_ you're suddenly available," Jon's voice dripped with disdain.

"Don't. Not now," Tim said warningly. "Just tell me what's happening with Sasha."

Martin held a hand up before Jon could interrupt him again. "We don't know exactly. She didn't come in today, or yesterday. We'd actually been wondering if she was with you."

"I take it from your call she isn't," Jon said. "Did she tell you anything about where she was going?"

"No. I didn't even know she was going anywhere. Have you called her?"

"Of _course_ \--"

"--We tried," Martin cut Jon off, his tone forcefully calm. "We've been trying to reach her for a while, actually, but she isn't answering calls or texts."

There was a pause on the line as Tim quietly cursed. Then Jon's hand was on Martin's wrist, pulling him – no, pulling the phone in his hand – closer.

"Look, just . . . come back to the institute," the argumentative tint to his voice was gone, now he was all but pleading. "We can work this out together. Just – just come back."

There was a pause, then Tim's voice again.

". . . I'll be there in a few hours."

He hung up without ceremony. Jon released his hold on Martin and slumped into a chair.

"Well, that's one crisis dealt with," he exhaled. "Or postponed."

There was nothing like relief in Jon's voice, only a low, tired dread. Martin looked at him, taking in the bruises under his eyes, the unsteady tremor to his hands. He looked . . . harried. Like he'd been running for days and might drop dead from exhaustion before whatever was after him even caught up.

Martin found himself badly wanting to reach for him, to brush away whatever dark thoughts were settling in. He wanted to take a blanket and wrap him up warm _,_ to sit next to him as he'd done for Martin in the storage closet, until he felt safe enough to close his eyes and _rest._

"Jon . . ." he said softly. "You're not well."

A hollow, humorless laugh. "Not really, no."

Sasha was missing, monsters were real, and Jon was keeping secrets that were tearing him apart from inside out. Martin didn't know how anything he might say could stand against any of that. But he still wanted to say _something_. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

"You don't have to take everything on, you know. We're in this together, right? That's what you just told Tim. So let me _help_ you," Martin said, something weak and pleading in his voice. "Tell me what you need."

An indecipherable look passed over Jon's face. Martin wanted to take his hand but had enough sense not to try, instead placing his own hand palm-down on the desk beside them. To his surprise, Jon reached forward to grasp it. For a moment something fluttered in Martin, but he nudged the feeling carefully aside. This wasn't about his embarrassing, childish crush. Jon was scared and exhausted, and he needed a friend. Martin turned his palm and gripped back. If he could give Jon any little bit of comfort, he was going to, and he was _not_ going to be weird about it.

"What I need . . . ." Jon swallowed and shook his head. "What I need is to know where Sasha is, and – I need Tim to not be doing something _suicidal_ _ly_ dangerous." He looked up at Martin, then back to their joined hands, placing a second palm over them both. "I need you all to be all _right._ It's all I have . . . ."

"Okay . . . okay. Well." Martin took a breath, in and out. "We'll do what we can to find Sasha. And Tim is on his way back for now," he said softly. "And for what it's worth, you know, I – I'm here."

". . . I know." Jon gave him a weak smile, and shook his head again. "Whatever else happens, I . . ."

He trailed off, looking down at their hands. His thumb moved back and forth, absently brushing little arcs over Martin's knuckles. He was quiet for a long while.

"I don't know," he finally said. "Just be safe. Please. If . . . if I lost you, Martin, I don't even know . . . ."

Jon kept his grip on Martin and yes, he was definitely _stroking his hand_ now. Martin's heart began to pound. He might have kept it together, but then Jon's fingertips trailed up the curve of his wrist and his breath hitched – quiet, but Jon heard it. He looked up abruptly, seeming to realize himself, and dropped Martin's hand as if it was on fire.

"God, I – I'm sorry, I didn't –"

The pained look returned to Jon's face as he pushed away from the desk. Several responses crowded Martin's brain at once. _It's okay, you don't have to stop,_ and _please don't look so sad,_ and _I'M GAY IN CASE THAT WAS_ _SOMEHOW_ _UNCLEAR, I MENTION THIS NOW FOR NO REASON._ But instead of saying anything he stared, dumbfounded, as Jon got to his feet.

"I have to go," he said, hurrying back towards his office. Martin heard the door slam followed by the click of the lock, and he was left sitting speechless next to two cold cups of tea.

* * *

Back to the door, Jon pressed his face into his crossed arms, swallowing back the noises that refused to stop coming out of him. He wasn't crying, the fact was that he was far too tired for tears, but kept his mouth covered all the same. He'd done enough to confuse Martin already without him hearing Jon sob through the door.

Stupid, stupid. Careless. It was falling apart so quickly. He couldn't imagine what else he'd have managed to destroy if he'd stayed in that room a moment longer.

Every step he took seemed to be a mistake, every option leading to disaster. Keep his secrets to himself and Sasha runs off to die looking for answers. Let out a little truth and Tim throws himself to the Circus. Be the Archivist, let the Beholding in and he would repeat the cycle as Jonah's tool. But stay human, and if he wasn't killed by something lurking in the shadows he'd be spun into the hands of the Spider.

Assuming he wasn't there already. He'd danced his way to the apocalypse once, all the while thinking he was trying to prevent it. How could he be sure every action he took now wasn't part of the Spider's plan?

He'd had a dream some nights ago. Martin had been in his flat, curled up with him on the couch – there had been no confession, no revelation of feelings, they were simply together once more, and it was wonderful. Until Martin tried to get up. Jon felt a tug as he moved – first gentle, then more insistent. Martin's expression went from one of contentment to confusion, to sudden distress. He was trying to pull away, but somehow his arms were still wrapped around Jon. With as much force as he could muster, Martin yanked back _hard_ , and his arm finally moved to reveal thick, white webbing between them, binding their flesh together.

Horror washed over him as Martin began struggling in earnest, and Jon felt every tug and snap, the desperate writhing of hopelessly trapped prey. Jon wanted to say something – to comfort him, to scream with him, to beg for his forgiveness – but a thousand legs were stirring inside him. He felt the press of movement in his throat, and put all his effort into keeping his mouth closed. Not certain how long he'd last, but entirely sure of what would swarm from him the minute he let it open.

He very nearly found himself missing the Watcher's nightmares when he woke. At least he'd never worried that they might be prophetic.

Jon's fingers tangled themselves into in his hair, and he felt something crawl over his hand. He jumped, shaking his arm free, and a palm-sized spider fell onto the floor. Revulsion crawled through him – he grabbed a loose folder, ready to smash it. But the moment he raised his arm he saw something move in the corner of his eye. He looked around and suddenly they were _everywhere._

Hundreds, thousands . . . more? He didn't know how many, it didn't matter how many, it was _t_ _oo_ many. _Too many spiders,_ his brain screamed. Tiny, skittering things crept out from behind boxes and between files, from under the baseboards and over the ceiling. They crawled from every direction in the room _– above him, around him, everywhere, EVERYWHERE._

Panic gripped him. He froze. So did the spiders. For a tense moment, they all stayed like that – Jon too terrified to move, eyes darting from one part of the room to another. He was surrounded. There was a clean circle a few feet around him, and beyond that, the swarm. Waiting. Unmoving. Why were they just _sitting_ there?

Experimentally, he lifted the folder in his hand, ready to bring it down. The swarm crept closer. He stilled, and they stopped. They didn't withdraw, but they didn't advance either. It seemed that they weren't going to touch him . . . unless he made a move to kill one of them.

What the hell was _this_ ? Some new way to toy with him? Was he being trained like a _dog_ , now? The Web didn't like his habit of killing spiders, so it was sending a message – quit swatting at us, or – or what? They'd kill him? Not if they intended to use him, they wouldn't . . . but then, they wouldn't need to. He'd seen the sort of things they do to people – victims left hollow but alive, helpless to stop as their bodies are jerked along on invisible strings.

He shuddered, withdrawing his hand, and he swore he could _feel_ the pleasured satisfaction running through them as he did what he was told. It made his stomach twist.

He couldn't just _obey_ them like this, could he? But if he defied them and they swarmed, wouldn't they have him then as well? Was it reverse psychology, did they want him to attack and give them an excuse? Or was that what they wanted him to think, so he'd fall in line? Maybe he was damned either way, maybe it was only a question of _how_ his free will would be stripped from him.

To hell with it, then – if _nothing_ mattered, he could still spit in the puppeteer's face. He raised the folder in his hand.

Then he stopped.

Something dawned on him. Not the sudden rush of Knowing he'd felt from the Beholding, this was more akin to the moment he'd understood what the Distortion was, his own mind putting together the pieces of something he'd been struggling with. He forced himself to ignore the swarm and focus on the lone spider he'd shaken from his hair. The one that had made sure he'd noticed it, that still hadn't scuttled away. It was waiting for him. _All_ of them were. The last pieces fell into place.

"It has to be a choice," he whispered.

The spider regarded him, silent. Slowly, he lowered his hand, wary of any sudden movement that could break the stillness holding it all back. He never took his gaze off the palm-sized spider on the floor.

"It _has_ to be a choice. But it doesn't have to be a _fair_ choice." he continued, face twisting into a hateful grin. "Doesn't have to be a choice you understand the consequences of, or even one you _know_ you're making. It can be made under the threat of death or heat of panic, as long as it's done."

"That's what's been haunting me this whole time, isn't it?" His voice was bitter. "You have to make a _choice_ , Jon. You chose to pursue knowledge, _Jon_ . All of this has been because of _your choices_ Jon. That's where you creep in."

Jon knew the small, eight-legged fear in front of him. It had been with him a long time, its legs tickling the back of his mind whenever he agonized over the all things he might have done differently. And how much _more_ had he been thinking of those things since he came back? Since what he might have done differently had become an immediate reality, no longer hypothetical? How many hours had he spent dwelling over all the possible outcomes, the consequences he could never predict? How many times had he been paralyzed by the thought that each new action would make things worse?

If there was no hope – if there was truly nothing he could do, no way to keep the world from ending . . . well, that would be a nightmare of its own. But if the world could be saved, then Jon could _fail_ to save it, could destroy them all again.

That horror of choice, that fear of responsibility. He'd brought it back with him.

The spider scuttled forward. Decades-deep arachnophobia rose in Jon at the skittering motion, but he resisted the urge to swat at it. Stiffly, he pressed himself into the door as the thing began to crawl up his leg. Every muscle in him wanted to jerk away, to get rid of it, destroy it. He resisted the urge. Carefully, he reached down and scooped it up, cupping it between his hands. Its legs tickled his palms and his skin crawled, but his own fear screaming at him to to crush and kill it solidified the certainty that he shouldn't.

"So you come to me when I'm at my worst," he said, "at my lowest and most self-destructive, and you set up this little tableau. Make me feel powerless, toyed with, so that I lash out. And as I do so, I think – _to hell with it, let them have me_ _._ "

And they _would_ have him then. They'd swarm, slip in through his eyes, ears, and nostrils, crawl through him as he screamed and wept and writhed. Then they'd tuck themselves away inside him, where they could spin their webs, lay their brood, and turn him to their purposes.

He'd be theirs. Freed from all responsibility, a helpless, innocent puppet.

Not a fair choice, but enough of one.

". . . That part of me that wanted you to be the reason I hurt people, that in my worse moments wished the Eye would overtake me, take the fear and the shame and make me a monster that didn't care. It called to you, didn't it? I'm sure it's calling to you still," he said softly. "But that isn't me. A part of me, maybe, but not all of me. And I've been fighting it too long to give in now."

Bending forward, he opened his palms and shook the little fear onto the floor, glaring at it with every ounce of hatred he had in him.

"I don't know if I can fight you forever, any of you. Maybe it's foolish to think anyone can. But I'm not going to give myself to you that way," he growled. "I'm. Not. Yours."

The lights flickered as he spoke those final words, and for a moment he felt an overwhelming sense of vertigo. When he managed to focus again, the spider was gone. As were all the others – he looked in every direction, but they were nowhere to be seen. Left . . . or crawled back into hiding, he didn't know which.

Jon sat there, wondering what exactly he'd just done. It felt as though a decision had been made. But he didn't have much time to think about it before the sounds of shouting came from down the hall.

"Jon!?" Martin's voice, strained and panicked. "Jon! Sasha's come back, and she's hurt!"


	10. Bright As You Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is found. Something is lost. Everything is about to change.

"I can't believe you went looking for her."

Sasha sat in Jon's office, arm resting on his desk. The lamp cast a rectangle of light on her injured hand as he bent over it, gently dabbing at the wound with the end of a damp cloth. His expression was grim.

"I suppose it _was_ a bit reckless," she conceded, hoping the apology in her tone would mollify him a bit."I did make sure to meet in a public place."

"As if that makes a difference." Jon fixed her with a glare. "I _used_ to think that you were the most level headed among us."

"Mmm." She clicked her tongue thoughtfully. "Think that's Martin, actually."

"Well, you could learn a thing or two from him."

"How's he doing, by the way? I've been so busy, it feels like I've barely seen him since that trivia night." She smiled, lightening her tone. There was probably no avoiding the thunderhead of a lecture she sensed Jon was brewing, but she might still put it off by getting him talking about his favorite person.

Jon's tone didn't change as he went back to cleaning the wound. "He's fine. He's been worried. You disappeared for four days, then came back with _this ._ . ." he shook his head, irritation in his voice. "I don't even believe in karma, and this is still too much."

A twinge ran down Sasha's palm. This whole process hurt . . . even the most careful touch was lightning on her burn. But it would be another hour before she could take more pills. "Thanks for helping with this . . . it's tricky to do one-handed."

"Mmhm."

"You make a pretty decent nurse, honestly," she let a little playfulness into her voice, hoping to engage him. She wasn't too keen on silence at the moment. "I'm surprised."

"I have some experience caring for an injury like this," Jon muttered, and she would certainly be filing _that_ away for later. Pushing it now would probably be a poor idea, though.

He kept his attention on her wound, not adding anything or attempting to continue the conversation. Silence was suddenly a thing he had in quantity.

It was odd. Of all people, she'd expected the most questions from him – a full interrogation, peppered with distressed scolding. But when she'd returned to the archive he'd stood by and said almost nothing, leaving Martin to ask the obvious things about where she'd been and what had happened to her. Jon had just listened with that strange, solemn look on his face, then told her he'd help change her bandages.

Having cleaned the wound and dabbed it dry, he reached for the little bottle of ointment that the doctor had given her. Sasha cleared her throat.

"I didn't meet her without reason," she said, shifting to a more reproachful tone. "I've read about Jude, I know what she does to people. But she knew things. About Gertrude, the institute . . . all kinds of things really. This was just her price for information."

Jon grimaced, keeping his eyes down. He looked sick. The burn was hard to look at even for her – a ragged and uneven red, skin curling at the edges, blisters still raw and weeping.

"It was certainly unpleasant," she continued. "Pretty sure I'm not going to have a career as a hand model after this. But they gave me some exercises to do as it heals, and hopefully I'll have my full range of movement back soon –"

"No you _won't._ "

Jon's voice was quiet, but sharp and sudden enough to cut Sasha off.

"It will never come back," he continued darkly. "Not entirely. On good days, it'll be stiff and clumsy. On bad days you'll have to sit with a bag of ice cradled in your palm, barely able to use it for pain. _Sometimes_ you'll actually think about cutting it off somehow, because would it really be worse to just live with one hand? But then you'll remember everything you've had to re-learn since she touched you, everything you once took for granted. You'll wonder how much about your scarred, aching traitor of a hand you're taking for granted now, and realize you still have more to lose."

A little curl of unease formed at the base of Sasha's stomach, and she tried to remind herself that Jon wasn't a doctor or a burn expert. It didn't reassure. He sounded very certain of what he was saying.

"You don't recover from a wound Jude Perry gives you. You learn to live with it," he finished. "That's what she does. It's what she _is._ "

Quiet filled the room as Jon taped the new bandage down. Sasha let his words sink slowly in. She didn't want to think about her hand if she could help it. Instead she found herself wondering who Jon had known that had been touched by Jude. Someone close, she'd wager. His grandmother, maybe? Hard to guess.

"Tell me if it's too loose."

". . . It's fine."

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. "I'll go and get you some water."

She watched him, considering. There was a question that had been on her mind for the last day and a half, and as he stood and turned towards the door, she decided that she might as well just ask it.

"What did Gertrude tell you?"

He hesitated, hand halfway to the door. "Wh – What do you mean?"

"It's not hard to piece together. You've been acting secretive more or less since you took over for her. You went from being an outspoken skeptic to always talking about how dangerous the supernatural is. And then there's your convenient ‘hunches' about things like Jane, or Helen's connection to Michael."

"Ah." Jon glanced uneasily to the side. "I suppose I can see how it might look like that . . . ."

"I _know_ Gertrude knew more than she let on, and I imagine a lot of it had to do with the stranger aspects of this place. I don't know if she said anything to you while she was still here, or if you found something she'd left for whoever replaced her. But I'm right, aren't I? She warned you about something."

Sasha had gotten up from her seat and crossed the room towards Jon, and he took a few steps backwards in response. She wasn't _trying_ to come off as aggressive, truly, but it was a little hard to hold back. After several difficult days and an agonizing visit to the hospital, she had something solid to back up her suspicions. If Jon could just _tell_ her what he'd learned, she might be able to fill in the gaps she still had.

It struck her that she'd managed to back him up against the door, and was leaning perhaps a _bit_ too hard into his personal space. She pulled back an inch, softening her tone.

"Jude told me a _lot_ , Jon," she said quietly. "I think know what happened to Gertrude, and I'm pretty sure you do too. That's why you don't trust Elias, isn't it?"

" _Don't --_ " he looked at her with pleading eyes, "it's – we're not safe here."

She hesitated, then nodded with a sigh. Apparently relieved, Jon sagged against the door, shaking his head.

"I ought to have known that something like this would happen," he muttered, contrariness in his tone, "that you'd find something like Jude and go throat-first at it."

"You'd have known before me, then. Still can't believe I worked up the courage to do it."

"Mmmn," he reached up and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. Maybe it's time . . . maybe it's _past_ time."

Sasha cocked her head as he nudged past her. He went to his desk where he pulled out a key and a small, black notebook.

"There are some things I need to take care of. Meet me here an hour after Rosie leaves for the night, and make sure that Tim and Martin are there too. Tim's on his way over now, but you may need to convince him not to leave again."

". . . I can do that."

"Right," Jon took a deep breath, and headed for the door. "Try not to get _mutilated_ until then."

"I'll do my best."

Sasha didn't even try to hide her smile, or the excitement she felt building, though she pushed down the urge to ask more questions. Wherever this sudden change had come from, Jon was suddenly calling for a clandestine, after-hours meeting. She was sure she'd have _some_ answers soon.


	11. Going Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon looks towards the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note of the new content tag, it applies both to this chapter and the next one. 
> 
> Also, this isn't a "Jon was in the Mechanisms" AU, so much as one where Jon was in a band stylistically similar to the Mechanisms but not nearly as cohesive. They never made a full album and didn’t have fans except personal friends of the people in it. Jon’s onstage persona also wasn't Jonny D'Ville but was a similar level of dramatic.
> 
> Because it entertains me and because I will always stand behind an awkward nerd going full ham when they can hide behind a costume and makeup : D

The streetlights were coming on. One of them caught Jon's eye, flickering for a moment before settling. Its light didn't make it very far into the alleyway, cut off by the shadow of the institute building. As the sky grew dark, the last few feet of pavement were completely obscured. Something could easily stand in that shadow, unseen by anyone walking by.

The words _can I have a cigarette_ popped into Jon's mind as he pulled out the slim package of Silk Cut, placed one between his lips, and lit it. His lighter was cheap yellow plastic, disposable and meaningless. There was no lighter with a spiderweb pattern in his pocket. Like the table, it had never been delivered.

That lighter. He wondered, as he inhaled nicotine and acetaldehyde, why he could think about it now. His mind had simply slid off it before, even when it was brought to his attention. Only recently had it finally occurred to him how strange it had been, to hold onto a thing like that for so long. He'd been _made_ not to notice it. Why was he allowed to realize that now?

Maybe he'd been freed from something. More likely, they didn't need the lighter anymore, didn't need to hide their influence on him. They knew that there was nothing he could do.

Annabelle's words rang in his memory as he took another drag, telling him that addiction was one of the most powerful vectors of control. She wasn't wrong, and maybe he shouldn't be smoking at all right now. But the old lie of _just one more_ still had its pull. Any fractional part of himself he might be feeding to the spiders with every puff seemed as irrelevant as lung cancer at this point. Besides, this really _was_ his last cigarette. He knew a surefire way to quit.

Still a couple of hours until it would begin, and there was nothing to do but wait and contemplate. Everything was ready. It had been ready for some time, really. If he was honest with himself, he'd been putting this off. Stalling, telling himself he needed more time, when the reality was that he just didn't want to go through with it. It was strange that he was still afraid to die. After everything he'd been through – more importantly, everything that was at stake – one might expect him to go to his end stoically, even with relief. Comforted by some notion that he was making a noble sacrifice. Or by the darker hope that so many cross that line with, that at the end of it all there will be rest.

He didn't feel noble. He didn't feel like some soldier in a Tennyson poem, riding boldly and well into death. He felt like Alexei in the endless trench at the end of the world – scared, powerless, yearning for a home that had ceased to exist. All he had in him was a dull, cold ache, broken by the occasional stab of fear as he contemplated how little time was left. He supposed Terminus's torments got everyone in the end.

It would be nice, though, if he could be stoic. He didn't like thinking his last hours would be spent fighting down dread.

Another puff. The smoke made patterns in the air around him, the abstract shape of his breath outlined in ash and tar. As he watched it dissipate, the light hit it at a particular angle and for a moment – fast, but unmistakable – he saw the interlacing tendrils of a spider's web. With a start, he dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe.

Dying wasn't so bad, he told himself. Everyone did it eventually. And there were far worse things than death.

There was still time before Rosie would leave for the night, and he decided to treat himself to a last meal. He considered getting something extravagant or indulgent, but in the end all he wanted was a sandwich and soup from the nearby cafe, so it would be that. One more simple comfort, with enough calories to get him through this final push.

As he passed the front of the Institute he saw Martin sitting on the steps, staring out across the street and scribbling something in a little notebook.

Jon froze. He hadn't expected to run into anyone. "Oh. Hello."

". . . Hi." Martin seemed likewise surprised to see him, quickly stuffing the notebook into his bag. In the back of his mind, Jon wondered if he'd been writing poetry. "You, uh . . . coming to the meeting later?"

Martin was choosing his words carefully, he noticed. At least _some_ one was taking his warnings about Elias seriously.

"Yes. Ah, yes," he replied. "I'll see you there."

Martin nodded. Jon began to walk past him, but after a few feet he stopped and turned.

"Have you eaten?" he blurted out. Martin blinked, surprised, and he continued. "I, ah, was just going to get something from the cafe down the street. If you'd like to join me."

He spoke stiffly and too fast, and maybe that was what made Martin pause – the nervousness apparent in Jon's demeanor. The weight he couldn't keep from placing on the question.

"Um. You mean. . . ?"

He could almost see Martin doing calculations. Weighing the intensity of everything that had happened that day, and Jon's own confusing outburst earlier. They'd eaten at that cafe before, but only during work hours. Did it mean something else if it was dinner?

Jon wanted to say yes, it meant exactly what he thought it did and more. But now was the one time when he really, truly _couldn't,_ not with what he knew was coming. It would be too cruel. He'd had countless chances to tell Martin how he felt, and he hadn't taken them, and now it was too late.

"I mean," he said gently "that I think we could both use a little time to just relax. And not think about everything that's been happening. That's all."

"O-oh. Right. Of course." Was he disappointed? Embarrassed? Relieved? Jon truly couldn't tell. "Um, yeah. That sounds good. Let me just get my coat."

He vanished into the institute, leaving Jon outside. He wondered if it had been a mistake to ask. If he should have just left on his own, come back alone, and done what had to be done. Then Martin came back out, wrapping a scarf around his throat, and smiled when their eyes met.

After that, he didn't worry or wonder. He smiled back.

* * *

Jon's thoughts were scattered, and Martin's presence beside him as they walked was a source of gravity, pulling him back to the same questions, over and over. Would he believe Jon after he explained everything? Would he take it poorly? More than anything else . . . when it was over, all of it, would he be all right? Perhaps predictably, Martin was the one to actually break the silence.

"So . . . look. We don't have to talk about Sasha, or Tim, or–" he waved his hand, indicating anything and nothing. "All of that. It's just, today's been rough, and you're being really quiet, and . . . ."

A quiet warmth rose in Jon's chest. ". . . You want to know if I'm all right."

"Basically?"

"I'm . . . as all right as I'm going to be. Under the current circumstances," he sighed. "I'll let you know if I feel a nervous breakdown coming on."

Martin gave him an uncertain look, as if he might be serious, but when Jon smiled he seemed to realize he was joking. "Ah. Well . . . Sasha took hers this weekend, so the rest of us are probably due."

"Seems only fair."

"Maybe we can set up a schedule? ‘Oh, Tuesday – that means it's Tim's turn to do the dishes in the break room and Martin's to scream in the storage closet.'" He shook his head. "We're a mess, huh? The four of us."

"Could be worse. No one's murdered anyone else, or threatened a coworker with a deadly weapon. Those are a couple of points in our favor," he paused for a moment, then added. ". . . That was a joke."

"I should _hope_ so. Sheesh. If I'm ever in a position to send out job applications again, remind me not to use you as a reference. Can't imagine what you'd say about my perfect no-homicide streak."

That made Jon pause. He tiled his head, considering. "I'm not sure that you actually have one . . . we did kill Jane Prentiss?"

"I – what? She wasn't even really alive, though, was she? That can't possibly count."

"Mm. Maybe not." He had his doubts, but how much of Jane had truly been there when they killed her wasn't a question he wanted to dig into at that moment. "Either way, since I was the one to set off the alarm, you were really more of an accomplice."

"And there's self-defense? She was trying to _eat_ us, it doesn't get much more threatening than that."

Jon smirked. "It'd be a bold strategy, arguing that to a jury."

The last few blocks to the cafe had passed without him really noticing, and the two of them went inside. As they settled at a table, he turned to Martin.

"What would you actually do? If you could leave?" he asked. "If you really were sending out applications."

Martin paused in draping his coat over the back of the chair, startled by the question."Is this a, ‘what would you do if money didn't matter' sort of thing, or like –"

"No. Money is the same. Everything is the same, just the institute's gone. What would you do?"

"Dunno? Try to get another library job, probably, since it's what I have experience in. Suppose that's not a very interesting answer."

"It's a reasonable one."

"I liked it in the library, though. I guess it suited me . . . it was quiet and easy to keep things organized. Easier than the archive, at least," he shrugged, sitting down. "What about you? What would you do if you could quit?"

Oh. Fair question, one Jon should have realized he was opening himself to after asking Martin the same. He really wasn't sure what to say. Starting over outside the Institute . . . it was something he used to think about, occasionally. In Scotland he would allow himself silly, idle thoughts of the two of them settling there. Laying low, maybe finding work in the tiny village somewhere or in his more fanciful moments living ‘off the land' in some impossibly nonspecific way.

His mind still drifted the safehouse from time to time, but it was only a daydream. His already impractical, half-formed plans had turned into soothing fantasies disconnected from any reality – too perfect and comforting to bother with the question of how they paid for groceries.

"Hard to say. The supernatural has seemed like such an inescapable thing for a while now. I – I know it's only been a year. But it's still hard to imagine myself outside the archive anymore." He sucked air in through his teeth. "Which sounds awfully grim, I'm sure."

"I think I might get it. Honestly . . . this is going to sound just awful, but after you told us about the no-quitting thing, I think a part of me was relieved? Just a _small_ part. But I'd been anxious about losing this job on and off for a while now, and on some level I guess I was just glad I wouldn't need to worry about that."

"Martin . . ." Jon said softly. "You – we can't think like that. You're not better off at the Institute."

"Oh, I know. I mean, I get it. Like I said . . . just a small part," he shrugged. "But you already know this is the only real job I've ever had. And even before the supernatural stuff, it's not like I had much of a life outside of it."

"You seem to get along with people, though," he said. "Hannah, and the others from the library. You talk with nearly everyone, don't you?"

"I guess . . . but only at work. Which kind of proves my point."

Jon nodded slowly, looking down at his hands. Once again found his mind returning to _wou_ _ld_ _he be all right?_ He knew that there were a thousand, thousand ways for a person to be trapped somewhere. After a moment of silence, he continued.

"Er. How _is_ Hannah doing?"

"Oh. All right, I suppose. She's got her due date set, so she's making plans for that."

"Right . . . you know," he cleared his throat. "I don't think I know half the people outside the archive as well as you do."

"Well, I've been here a lot longer. You at least know Yolanda right? I saw you two talking last week, it looked like you were getting on."

"I suppose? I mentioned liking cats, and she sort of cornered me. Wouldn't let me leave until she'd gone through every detail of hers."

"Heh, that sounds right."

"I don't mind seeing photos of people's pets, obviously. But she insists on calling them her ‘fur babies' which really is an horrific term. . . ."

From there they got to talking about others in the Institute who had strange quirks with their pets. Apparently Iris had brought their bearded dragon into the library one afternoon and it had gotten loose in the stacks. Jon observed with a smirk that this seemed to be a pattern around Martin, which to his delight managed to fluster him a little. He stammered something about how he'd checked with the shelter and the dog had been adopted already, so Jon could rest easy knowing it wouldn't find it's way back there, thank you very much.

Listening to him speak, Jon found himself thinking about how much Martin noticed about other people. Little things that escaped Jon or fell through the sieve of his memory somehow stood out to him. It was a bit embarrassing to realize there were still colleagues of his in research that Martin knew more about than he did.

Martin also had more than a small streak for gossip, a quality that hadn't had much chance to come up in the time he'd spent with Jon in that other life. It was a recklessly endearing thing to discover, and the time passed quickly as they talked.

". . . And there's the live lobster that Rosie won in a raffle," Martin said, finishing out a story. "But you probably know about that one already, pretty sure she told everyone about it."

"Not everyone. Not me, anyway."

Jon's mind momentarily drifted to a cold, echoing tower, to a sense of being caught eavesdropping, and of swallowed regret. It was usually how he felt around Rosie nowadays. Things weren't made much easier by the fact that whenever they made eye contact he heard Jonah's voice saying "Nosy Rosie" in the back of his mind, and he'd grown vaguely terrified that one day he'd just say it out loud without thinking.

"I find it little hard to talk to her, though," he added. "And I don't think she's especially fond of me."

Martin balked at that. "Rosie? Come on, she likes _everyone._ "

"No one likes _everyone,_ Martin."

"Okay, fine. But, still, she's like, the most laid back person in the whole building. How is she of all people hard to talk to? Unless –" a thought seemed to occur to him. "Oh, wait – is this something to do with Elias? Is she his henchman or something? Is she in on it?"

"What? No, no, it's nothing like that . . . though I suppose her closeness to Elias doesn't help. I can't exactly talk with her about . . . well, any of this."

"So talk to her about something else, then!" Martin's tone had taken on a determined edge, and Jon feared he had a point that he was making. "I _know_ you can talk about things that aren't terrible, dire secrets. Tell her about emulsifiers or something."

"I don't know . . ." Jon shifted in his chair. "I think I lost the art of conversation somewhere."

"Oh, come on. You talk to _me_ all the time, and Sasha and Tim . . . ."

". . . That's different."

Heat was rising to Jon's face, and it occurred to him that he should probably just agree with whatever he said in the hopes that they could move past this point in the conversation. But he just didn't have it in him _not_ to be contrary over this – an energy that seemed to only feed into Martin's.

"Come on, pretend I'm Rosie." Martin folded his arms and leaned forward on his elbows, looking at Jon. "Tell me something about yourself. Talk about your hobbies or something."

"Hobbies . . ." Jon shook his head, quietly baffled. "I don't know . . . I read a lot? I used to collect sea glass, but not really lately."

He sounded boring even to himself, but he couldn't think of a hobby that he'd stuck to for any real amount of time. What _had_ he done with himself before his days were spent desperately scrabbling against a tide of supernatural horror? He thought back.

"Oh. Well, I did a little bit of theater in college. And I was in a band for about a year and a half."

That got Martin's attention. "You were in a band? Like, a real one?"

"I don't know what makes a band ‘real' or not," he shrugged. "We weren't _imaginary._ "

"Fair enough, I suppose. Would I have heard of you?"

"Are you – are you still being Rosie, or –?"

"No, I guess not. I'm just curious. Would I have?"

"Definitely not. Not unless you happened to attend open mics around Oxford, or were a regular at the only bar that ever let us play," he waved his hand, already embarrassed that he'd brought it up and eager to move past it. "It was just myself and a few friends, really it was an excuse to blow off steam."

"Huh. What kind of music did you play?"

"Oh God. Experimental, I guess? Sort of industrial, but also operatic, maybe? Not – not what you're thinking of probably, but –" he huffed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not describing it very well."

He looked up to see Martin leaning forward subtly, arms on the table, a look of eager curiosity on his face. He was smiling. It was a nice smile, not nervous, not tired and worn down or wry, and Jon wanted to stop everything there. Stop time from moving forward, so that Martin could keep smiling like that, just for a while.

 _Nothing matters anymore,_ he thought.

"Hell with it," he said, reaching for his phone. "Would you like to see pictures?"

"Um, _yes?_ " Martin said. " _Absolutely._ "

Jon sighed, but felt a smile pulling at his face. "I'll warn you, they aren't very flattering. And almost all of them were taken in the dim light."

He thumbed through his photo albums until he reached what he was looking for, then passed his phone across the table. Martin took it, looking at the picture and then back at Jon, as if comparing the two.

" _Huh_ ," he said diplomatically, biting his lower lip. Jon was just glad he wasn't openly laughing. "You look different."

"Mmm. My hair was longer then."

"The makeup is nice. Are the silver things stars?"

"Oh. Yes . . ." Jon frowned, trying to remember details. "We each had sort of a character we played, though the backstories kept changing. Mine was a space explorer, I think? Honestly, I don't remember very well, and I don't think it was ever fully fleshed out."

"Have the others seen these?" Martin asked, flipping through them with growing delight.

Jon shook his head. "I've told Tim that I used to sing. But I'm fairly sure he thought I meant a school choir, and I didn't correct him. I haven't told Sasha at all, though I suppose it's always possible she's found out on her own."

"Really?" That made Martin pause and look back at him. Still smiling, pleased to have a secret, but surprised. "Why show me, then?"

 _Because I love you._ Jon thought. _Because I'm going to be dead in a few hours, and seeing the surprise and delight on your face is one of the last and greatest pleasures that I'll ever know. Because I want to give you so much, and I can't. I want to give you every wonderful thing you deserve, and I won't. All I can give you is this, and it's so small_ _and stupid and pointless_ _, but it's all that I have._

"I suppose I'm just in a sharing mood," he said.

* * *

Dinner passed far more quickly than Jon would have ever expected, and it was with a sigh that he finally looked at the time and realized it had nearly run out.

"We should probably be getting back."

A stab of something ran through him as he said it – fear, regret, or resolve, he couldn't tell. But it was soft, and didn't linger. Martin nodded and frowned as he looked at the bill.

"Forgot to ask them to split it," he muttered.

"Let me," Jon reached forward, gently slipping it from under his fingers. "It's the least I can do."

Martin hesitated, then said "I'll get the next one."

He managed half of a nod in response, he couldn't bear to agree out loud, it would feel too much like a lie. A moment later the bill was paid, and the two of them started back towards the Institute. As they left, Jon put a hand on Martin's arm.

"Thank you for this," he said, squeezing slightly before letting him go. "I . . . well, I think I really needed it."

The surprise in Martin's face at Jon's touch quickly turned into something softer, and he smiled down at him. "Anytime, Jon. Really."

The two of them walked back in silence.

* * *

Tim was still in the archive, meaning Sasha _had_ managed to convince him not to go off in search of the circus again. Melanie had also arrived, brought in by the unavoidably cryptic voice message he'd left on her phone. She seemed to be in conversation with Sasha.

Jon nodded at them. "You're all here. Good."

"What's going on?" Melanie said. "You claim it's urgent that I come but you don't say why, and it seems to me like no one else knows either."

"Not here." He held up a hand and turned, gesturing for them to follow. "We can talk in the tunnels, I'll explain everything there."


End file.
